


Hopeless Wanderer

by Enfilade



Series: Mend What is Broken [9]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, Dark Past, Death That Happened In Canon, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Exes, Fear of Death, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Mild Gore, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Past Relationship(s), Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Sieges, Superior/Subordinate, The DJD - Freeform, no other death, unwanted flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-14
Updated: 2018-07-29
Packaged: 2018-11-13 21:01:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 22,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11193342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: Ratchet doesn’t know how to tell Drift that Megatron has joined the crew of the Lost Light.  Drift doesn’t know how to tell Rodimus to knock off the flirting.  And both these concerns fade to insignificance with the DJD close at hand.  What do you do on the last day of your life?  Story set before, during and after "The Dying of the Light" and "Dissolution."





	1. Glass Over Your Flame

**Author's Note:**

> Story set before, during, and after “The Dying of the Light,” and during "Dissolution," and with reference to my other story “Friends in Low Places.” Also, the latest installment in the ongoing Dratchet saga, with numerous callbacks to “Forgiven” particularly.
> 
> Warnings for mild dark themes, specifically thoughts about sexual assault (no such assault is depicted, but one character is afraid that it happened), mention of unwanted flirting, mention of past abusive relationship, dubcon in the sense of superior/subordinate (mutually consented to, but power imbalance issues at play), canon-typical gore and violence, and horror elements (specifically with relation to the DJD and the alternate Lost Light). Thoughts about character death with reference to the alternate Lost Light and the impending DJD attack during "The Dying of the Light." Character death that happens in canon mentioned in this story; no other character death.
> 
> Past tense Deadlock/Megatron, past tense Ratchet/Pharma, and Drift struggling to define his relationship with Rodimus as friendship rather than sex and/or romance. Explicit present tense Drift/Ratchet as conjunx endura.
> 
> This far into an ongoing series, I’ve made a few storytelling choices that aren’t canon, and don’t reflect the only way I choose to interpret canon, and aren’t intended to comment on how anyone else interprets canon. Going solely on canon, there’s no proof that Pharma and Ratchet’s relationship was unhealthy, there’s no proof that Drift doesn’t welcome Rodimus’s flirting or even that what Rodimus intends to flirt with him, and there’s precious little Megatron/Deadlock interaction—and there’s absolutely no reason anyone else’s headcanons are less (or more) valid than the ones you see reflected in this story. These are headcanons I chose because they fit logically into the story I wanted to tell here. For readers new to TF comics, they’re not actual canon, and for longer-term readers, they aren’t my “one true interpretation” or intended to imply this is how these character interactions “should” or “must” be viewed. But to tell an ongoing, developing story, I had to make choices so that characters would have reasons for their actions and bases from which to evolve. 
> 
> I wanted to—and still want to—do a story about Drift and Ratchet’s rebuilds, and I know I need to finish “The Long Way Home,” but right now this was the story burning to get written. I’m not sure how long it’s going to be, but if it’s fewer than eight chapters I’ll be surprised.
> 
> Finally, at some point in the future—hopefully the FAR future—when James Roberts is no longer writing Transformers professionally and is, therefore, free to read fanfic…should he ever come across this story: I know I just named a fanfic for a Mumford & Sons song, and I know that this was a horrible thing to do, and I wish I could be appropriately sorry, but unfortunately I’m kind of awful that way, and I regret nothing.
> 
> (For everyone else, find “Hopeless Wanderer” by Mumford & Sons and crank it up.)
> 
> It's good to be writing Drift and Ratchet again.

Chapter One: Glass Over Your Flame

_Prior to MTMTE 50_

_After Ratchet and Drift’s rebuilds_

Ratchet had never thought of himself as a selfish mechanism. Not when _self-sacrifice_ had always been his vice of choice: giving and giving until he had nothing left, until his emotions shorted out in the comfortable haze of exhaustion. So the first time after his reunion with Drift, when Drift inquired about the _Lost Light_ , Ratchet had answered with reassuring words and thought nothing of it.

Drift asked very little at first about the people they’d left behind. When Ratchet had finally caught up to him, he’d been actively resisting the idea of returning. Ratchet suspected that stories about the _Lost Light_ would only be used to argue that the crew was getting along fine without him. Later, after Drift had finally agreed to return, Ratchet had told him a bit more. There had been some difficult conversations: Ambulon, Trailcutter, the truth about Ultra Magnus, a bit about Brainstorm and time travel.

But the most difficult conversation of all went unvoiced.

After a lifetime of self-sacrifice, Ratchet thought it wouldn’t be so bad to give himself a break once in a while So when Drift next asked about the _Lost Light_ , Ratchet had filled the conversation with stories about Mirage’s rivalry with Swerve and Tailgate’s love triangle and Crosscut’s latest play (working title: _When Push Comes To Shovel_ ), and Ratchet had smiled to see Drift laugh. Ratchet had not wanted to spoil Drift’s happiness. _Their_ happiness. It had been so much easier to let the burden go for a while and just enjoy themselves.

Except that Ratchet did it again. And again. And again. 

Now, as Ratchet looked out the viewscreen of the shuttle he shared with Drift, he realized that their current situation was untenable. Sooner or later, he was going to have to tell Drift about Megatron.

What could he say? How could he start that conversation? He had not forgotten what Drift had said on that fateful night in Swerve’s bar when Whirl had spiked the engex with Syk while playing _Truth or Drink_. Ratchet had consumed Whirl’s “Drink of Doom” rather than admit that his last lover had been Pharma—not that it was a secret, really, or all that hard to guess, but he hadn’t wanted to drop Pharma’s name in front of Pipes. He’d thought it would be easier to take his drink and be done with it.

Drift had also taken the drink, and later, he’d admitted why.

He hadn’t wanted the entire crew to know that his last lover had been Megatron.

At the time, Ratchet had been able to dismiss Megatron as one more aspect of Drift’s not-at-all secret past as a Decepticon. One more element in a long history of making the worst of limited choices. It was only later that Megatron became a problem for Ratchet. Ironically, that was right around the time when Megatron _stopped_ being a problem for the Autobots and attempted, instead, to _become_ an Autobot himself. Or so he said.

Ratchet wasn’t the only person unconvinced by Megatron’s alleged change of heart. And Ratchet wasn’t the only person hoping that Megatron’s trial would put an end to all the damage Megatron had done over the past four million years. Ratchet knew Cybertron would never get _justice_. Some crimes were just too big to be atoned for, and there was nothing Megatron or anyone else could do to take back the repercussions of four million years of brutal warfare. Ratchet was willing to settle for an assurance that Megatron would never harm anyone else.

Ratchet had felt—still felt—torn between his emotions and his beliefs. As a doctor, he had always opposed the death penalty on moral grounds. If it was wrong for a mech to take another mech’s life save in self-defence, then surely it was wrong for the state to take a mech’s life, too. It lowered the state to a murderer’s level, and it forced some innocent mech to do the job of the executioner—and pay the consequences. Nevertheless, Ratchet’s emotions told him that once, _just this once_ , nothing short of death would do. Did it count as self-defence when Megatron always seemed to come back from anything less?

Or maybe it was just that Ratchet saw red every time he thought of Drift and Megatron together.

Drift’s notions of interface had been _troubling_ at best, and Ratchet could only wonder what Megatron had done to him. Drift had never volunteered that information and Ratchet had never asked. But every time Ratchet had been forced to be in proximity with Megatron—when Ratchet had been forced to _fix_ Megatron—it had taken every iota of his self-control not to act on the fury seething in his spark. 

Since he’d left the _Lost Light_ behind, Ratchet had been more than happy to forget all about Megatron and savour the precious time he had with Drift. For once in his life he had no patients to repair, no hospitals or med bays to administer, no students to teach. No temptation from his old vice. Nothing to do but learn to _live_ with his new conjunx endura by his side. 

A fantasy slipped into Ratchet’s brain, one he’d been indulging often in the last few days. What if he and Drift never went back to the _Lost Light_? What if they settled down somewhere—rented a little villa in a resort, perhaps the one on Ghennix—and spent their time putting their new frames through their paces? Ratchet thought it might take him a very long time to explore Drift’s new body as thoroughly as he wanted to. Not to mention his own.

No more foolhardy quest. No more temptation to hover over First Aid.

 _No more Megatron_.

Just him and his new conjunx and a second lease on life.

Ratchet was too professional to take the notion seriously. He knew where he belonged, and it was back on the ship. And lately, Drift had started warming up to the idea, talking about how much he missed everyone and how he looked forward to seeing them all again. Ratchet had not wanted to dampen his enthusiasm by talking about Megatron.

 _You can’t let Drift set foot on the_ Lost Light _with no idea of who he’s about to encounter._

_And you can’t tell him just before you dock, either. Drift will need time to think. Drift will need time to figure out what to do._

What _did_ a mech do when faced with his former…what word even described what Megatron had been to Drift? Megatron had been lover and commander and guru and master all rolled up into one, and Ratchet knew that was a dangerous cocktail even before dark designs were added in. Pharma had been a warning to Ratchet of how power could corrode a relationship—even power wielded with the best of intentions.

_And how are you wielding your power now, Ratchet?_

Ratchet wished he knew when choosing a moment of happiness by deferring the discussion of a troubling subject for a later date had turned into _keeping secrets_. It felt as though it had, and some time ago, though Ratchet could not pinpoint exactly when. A while back, Ratchet and Drift had passed a tipping point, and now…now Ratchet was actively concealing information that Drift needed to know, and that made telling him so much the harder. Now he would have to justify why he hadn’t mentioned it sooner.

“So here you are.” Drift’s voice cut across Ratchet’s thoughts like a slap of cold cleaner.

Ratchet tore his gaze from the viewscreen and looked instead at the mech standing just inside the door. Drift was…

Drift was beautiful as ever. Ratchet knew he was staring and couldn’t help it. Sleek white curves and striking finials and a mouth that curved into a smile every time he laid eyes on Ratchet. Ratchet didn’t know what he’d done to deserve Drift as his conjunx. Sometimes he felt as though he’d given Drift nothing but half-measures all his life.

_You saved his life in Rodion, but you did nothing to get him off the streets._

_You left the_ Lost Light _to get him, but it took you long enough to do it._

_You’ve been hiding…_

Ratchet steeled himself and blurted the words out before he could contort his thoughts into yet another justification why he didn’t need to bring up Megatron today. “Drift, we need to talk.” 

Drift’s optics widened into an expression of concern. It killed Ratchet that Drift looked more worried about _him_ than afraid for himself. “Okay, Ratch,” Drift said.

Ratchet sighed. For better or for worse, he was in it now.

“Come sit down,” Ratchet said reluctantly. “There’s something you need to know about the _Lost Light_.”


	2. Live in the Truth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to thank everyone who, via comments or twitter or tumblr or emails or whatever--everyone who messaged me to express support. I might not be able to reply to all the messages but I want you to know they're appreciated. I'm shocked how many people love this series after all this time and it makes me feel so good to be writing it again.

Chapter Two: Live In The Truth

“ _Autobot_ Megatron?” Drift asked incredulously.

Drift hadn’t thought he’d ever lay optics on Megatron again. In truth, he hadn’t wanted to. Megatron didn’t take well to betrayal and Drift figured even the DJD would be better than another encounter with Megatron. There was no way Drift could have ever found the words to explain that his conscience had weighed mercy against loyalty and ruled in the favour of mercy. To Megatron, loyalty was the greatest of all virtues. Megatron could never have understood Drift’s reasoning.

So to hear that Megatron had renounced his own cause in favour of wearing an Autobot badge….

“You’re kidding me,” Drift tried. 

Ratchet’s agonized expression informed Drift that the medic was definitely not joking.

“I’m sorry,” Drift murmured. He vented heavily. “Why’s he on the _Lost Light_? I figure Prowl would’ve told him he could be an Autobot from a prison cell.”

“I wish,” Ratchet grumbled, and he explained how Megatron’s trial had taken a turn that no one could have foreseen.

“Starscream’s fault,” Drift summed up. “Starscream always did know how to push his buttons.” Drift furrowed his brow. “One thing that’s weird, though. Megatron’s a plotter. He would’ve had that idea about the Knights in his head all along, but from what you tell me, he didn’t intend to _use_ it until Starscream riled him up. That makes me think maybe he’s actually sincere.”

“Are you saying you believe in his “conversion?” Ratchet asked incredulously.

“Do you believe in mine?” Drift retorted.

Ratchet’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. Drift guessed Ratchet had been about to argue that Drift and Megatron were different, but when it came down to it, Deadlock and Megatron hadn’t been that different after all. Probably the biggest difference was that Megatron had always been able to be his own guiding light and forge his own path, while Drift had always needed someone else to anchor him.

He reached out a hand to Ratchet, but stopped just shy of touching him. Maybe Ratchet didn’t want to be touched by Deadlock, or even ex-Deadlock, right now.

Ratchet reached out and took Drift’s hand in his own. Drift’s conjunx looked him in the optics and said softly, “We don’t have to go back, you know.”

Drift could not have been more surprised if Ratchet had announced he was converting to Spectralism and putting on the purple badge. “What?” Drift spluttered.

“I’m just saying, we don’t _have_ to go back to the Lost Light. If knowing about Megatron changes things. We could rent a villa on Ghennix and relax for a while and….think. Think about what we both want out of life.”

Ratchet’s words sent a second jolt through Drift. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “But the Lost Light is our _family_ , Ratch. It’s where we belong.”

“Things change. Groups change. Units change. And if we do go back, I don’t…” Ratchet took a deep breath. “I don’t want you to feel you have to deal with Megatron every day just because of me.”

Drift was honestly bewildered. “I dealt with Megatron every day for a lot of the war, Ratch.”

Ratchet’s optics darkened, and Drift wondered what he was thinking about. Drift had seen an expression like that only once before. It was the way that Ratchet had looked when they’d both come down off the Syk. Drift had never found out exactly what Ratchet had said, or done, to Whirl, but Whirl had never repeated a stunt like that again.

“I don’t need you to protect me from Megatron,” Drift said softly.

It was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. Ratchet’s spinal strut stiffened and he sat up straight. “Fine,” he said, a little too quickly, indicating that it was not fine at all.

Drift jumped up from his chair and laid his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders. “Ratchet, you can’t fight _Megatron_ ,” he said. His fuel tank churned at just the thought. Nothing could ruin a sweet gesture like Ratchet getting the slag beaten out of him, and for what? From what Ratchet had told him, Megatron’s release was conditional. Trying to kill Drift would more than violate those conditions. 

“I can and I have,” Ratchet snapped back, but then he let out a breath. “But I get what you mean.” Ratchet really wasn’t a match for Megatron in one-on-one combat. Drift doubted anyone was.

“I don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“And _I_ don’t want to see _you_ hurt.”

Drift sighed. “You really think Megatron is going to punish me _now_ , for doing the exact same thing he did?”

Ratchet’s expression grew troubled. Drift could see that wasn’t what Ratchet had in mind, which meant he had no idea what Ratchet was thinking. 

So many mis-steps in their relationship had been the result of miscommunication. Presumption. Drift knew that it was better to ask than to guess. “Ratchet? What are you worried about?”

Ratchet bit his lip and looked away. He spoke hesitantly, in a voice far shakier than his usual tone. “Playing Truth or Drink in Swerve’s bar. When we didn’t want to talk about our exes.”

Drift felt incredulous. He seized Ratchet’s hands in his own. “You’re worried I’m going to dump you for _Megatron_?”

Ratchet pressed his lips together.

Drift blurted, “Ratchet, you’re my _conjunx endura_. I don’t care if we never did the ritual formally, with the four steps and the witnesses and stuff. I love you, and I want to spend my life with you. Megatron’s change of heart isn’t going to change that. And if…and if Gasket or Wing came back from the dead, _that wouldn’t change it either_. Do you get it? _You’re_ the most important person in my life, bar none. I’m not with you because…because someone else is dead, or on the opposite faction, or far away, or any junk like that. I’m with you because _I love you_.”

Drift caught his breath as a terrible thought occurred to him. “You’re….you’re not just with me because…because Pharma went crazy….are you?”

“Don’t even think that.” Ratchet came back to his old self as he squeezed Drift’s hands in return. “That relationship was going sour long before we both got on board the _Lost Light_.”

Drift immediately felt a little silly for being afraid of something like that for even an instant, but he couldn’t deny that Ratchet’s words made him feel better.

An idea occurred to him. “Ratchet, if it’s that _you_ don’t want to go back, you can say so. We can do the formal conjunx ritual somewhere else if you want. It doesn’t matter to me. All that matters to me is that we’re together.” He touched Ratchet’s forearm, knowing the sigil engraved on the underside of the hatch that covered Ratchet’s diagnostics cables. _Together we are home._

Ratchet sighed. “I’m not going to lie. I don’t like that Megatron’s at liberty and in command of a ship with only our associates to make him behave. I don’t trust him. I don’t know if this _conversion_ is too little, too late or just one more scheme he’s scheming, and even if he means it, there’s no saying he can’t change his mind again. And when— _if_ —that happens, I feel like I should be there. Megatron on the warpath is more than First Aid and Hoist can handle.” He drew in a deep breath. “Or maybe my workaholic nature is reasserting itself.”

“Ratch, you’d lose your mind sitting in a villa with nothing to do.” Drift leaned over and rested his helm against Ratchet’s. “I really do want to go back. I miss everyone. I don’t…I don’t know what’s going to happen with Rodimus, but…”

 _Rodimus_. When he’d been on the _Lost Light_ , Drift hadn’t known what to do about his best friend’s incessant flirting. Drift hadn’t been interested in interfacing with Rodimus, or really, anyone, but he’d desperately wanted Rodimus to be pleased with him. It was more than just the fact that Rodimus’s friendship had given him the 3IC rank and an “in” of sorts with the other Autobots. At first, only Perceptor—the ex-Wrecker—and Rodimus had had any time for Drift. The others still thought about Deadlock when they looked at him, and avoided him accordingly. So it would have been smart for Drift to encourage Rodimus’s affections anyway—but it was more than that. Deep down Drift really did care what Rodimus thought about him. He wanted Rodimus to like him.

Past experience had told Drift that if he wanted to secure his place, he’d let Rodimus do whatever he wanted. And in all honesty, Drift admitted that ordinarily, he would have. He’d have swallowed his discomfort and played along and gone wherever Rodimus had chosen to take him.

But Ratchet was also onboard. And Drift had found himself blindsided by an unexpected maelstrom of emotion. Embers that had smouldered in his spark for hundreds of years burst into sudden raging flame now that he saw Ratchet multiple times a day, every day.

If Drift was going to interface with anyone, he’d wanted it to be Ratchet. Ratchet would be worth it.

So he’d gone along with Rodimus’s flirting, but only so far. He’d hoped that when he laughed Rodimus off, that his best friend would take the hint. No such luck. Rodimus didn’t force the issue, but he didn’t knock off the flirting either, and Drift found himself awkwardly deflecting Rodimus’s advances while trying to pretend he wasn’t bothered and hoping Ratchet didn’t see it. Not that he’d ever imagined in a million years that he’d ever really have a chance with Ratchet. Or that he’d enjoy what they did together so very much.

So very much had changed.

Drift drew in a ragged breath. He couldn’t go back to the _Lost Light_ and pretend that nothing had happened. It wasn’t fair to Ratchet, or Rodimus, or to Drift himself.

“I’m going to tell Rodimus to knock off the flirting,” Drift said firmly.

Ratchet looked puzzled.

Drift felt guilty. “You know, back on the _Lost Light_? Rodimus was constantly flirting with me. I’m sure you saw it. Or at least _heard_ about it.”

“Yeah, I heard some things,” Ratchet admitted. 

“I let him do it because I wanted him to like me. Not romantically. Or sexually. He was my friend and I didn’t know how to tell him to stop without risking that friendship.” Drift bit his lip. “I don’t know how he’s going to take it, but I’m going to tell him to knock it off. It’s not fair now that you and I are _conjunx endura_ , and…” Drift looked into Ratchet’s optics. “Is it bad to say _more importantly_ , I just don’t like it when he does that?”

“It’s not bad at all,” Ratchet said firmly. “If you don’t like it, you have the right to set boundaries. And if he’s really your friend, then he’ll learn to respect those boundaries.” 

Drift managed a shaky smile. “It feels weird. That I let it go on this long without telling him.” 

Ratchet sighed. “That’s exactly how I felt about telling you about Megatron. I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t mention it long ago.”

Drift pulled Ratchet into his arms. He whispered in his mate’s audio, “I want to go back, Ratch. I want to go home to the _Lost Light_.”

They were going home. Together. And neither Megatron nor Rodimus was going to stop them.


	3. Hope's on Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Looking forward to TfCon Toronto next week! If you see me, say hi...I am, as always, the one in the Decepticon insignia army jacket.

Chapter Three: Hope’s On Fire

_During MTMTE 52_

This was not the way Ratchet had imagined his and Drift’s reunion with the crew of the _Lost Light_.

It wasn’t that Ratchet was particularly surprised to find out that Rodimus and company had gotten themselves into trouble. Trouble was business as usual for Rodimus.

The fact that they were on the same planet as at least some members of the DJD, on the other hand, was more than a little concerning. If some of the DJD were here, the others were probably not far away. As Ratchet understood it, the DJD were a close-knit group—and no wonder. Who else would want any of them around? 

And as if the DJD alone weren’t enough, according to Drift, the DJD’s new associates were members of Deathsaurus’s crew.

_Deathsaurus_. Deadlock’s old war buddy that they’d crossed paths with on Van Dorzen’s Moon. Suddenly, Deathsaurus’s evasive remarks about having a new alliance came terrifyingly clear. Ratchet had a horrible suspicion he knew who Deathsaurus’s new friend was, and it didn’t spell good news for the Autobots.

Ratchet looked up from tending to a badly battered Ten, who lay on the floor of the shuttle. Ravage, of all people, had flown to their rescue. Now the felinoid piloted the shuttle towards what he said was a rendezvous with the others, while Drift kept a wary eye on his prisoner, the Decepticon Justice Division’s Pet.

The shuttle’s engines had taken a critical hit, and Ravage had the shuttle established on a long glide path towards the fortress. Ratchet hoped that Ravage had enough skill to make the end of their journey a _forced landing_ rather than a true _crash_. And that assumed they didn’t encounter any enemy units along the way. Their ability to maneuver was limited, and too many turns would cause them to land far short of the safety of the fortress.

“There,” Ratchet said gently to Ten. “I’ll fix you up some more once we get to this fortress place.”

“Ten,” Ten said, in a grateful tone.

Drift glanced over. He gestured to Ravage and said to Ratchet, “I see you weren’t kidding about changes of heart.”

Ravage snorted. “Don’t lump me in with you, _Deadlock_.”

“So you don’t agree with Megatron’s new badge,” Drift summed up. “Yet you’re following him anyway.”

“Megatron taught me that the highest virtue is loyalty,” Ravage said cuttingly. “What would you know about that?”

Drift’s hands curled into fists. “Maybe _loyalty_ should belong to a principle and not a person,” he retorted. “You ever think of that?” He gestured towards Ratchet. “If I flipped out and started killing people, Ratchet would be wholly right to stop me, no matter what it took.”

Ratchet felt uncomfortable, given his recent thoughts about Megatron. Drift’s words sounded good, and Ratchet wanted to agree with them, but as of late his bond with Drift threatened to trump his old ethics that sounded so good in theory and would do nothing in practice to either punish Megatron, or protect Drift from him. As of late, Ratchet had started thinking that perhaps his feelings for Drift were more important than abstract questions of right and wrong. Now Drift seemed to be telling him that they shouldn’t be.

Ravage seemed amused. “Are you arguing that I should be faithful to the Cause above my loved ones? Because from where I sit, you seem to be trying to convince me to throw in my lot with Tarn.”

Drift’s face fell. “I didn’t mean…that wasn’t what…”

Ravage threw back his head and laughed.

Ratchet fidgeted, uncomfortable for another reason. He hadn’t heard Ravage banter like this before. The felinoid Decepticon tended to keep to himself, and when he did appear in Swerve’s, he usually spoke only when spoken to, typically with some dour or cutting remark. Ravage having _fun_ teasing someone was…well, it was unpleasantly humanizing. And it reminded Ratchet all over again that Drift—Deadlock—had old associates among the enemy faction. Deathsaurus. Ravage. 

Megatron.

Ratchet cleared his throat. “Drift,” he said quietly.

Ravage turned back to the controls as Drift walked over and knelt down on the other side of Ten. 

“You know I’m going to end up in the med bay when we get back,” Ratchet said regretfully. “Or whatever facsimile of a med bay they’ve rigged up.”

“Yeah, I know, Ratch.”

“I don’t want you to think I’m abandoning you. But…”

“Hey.” Drift put his hand on Ratchet’s shoulder. “You have a job to do. I understand that. Remember…remember your pager going off the morning after Hedonia?”

Ratchet smiled, touched by the memory.

“I knew what I was getting into when I took up with a doctor,” Drift said with a wink. “So go…do you, okay? I…” Drift took in a deep breath. “I’ll be okay.”

Ratchet looked down at Ten’s energon all over his hands and knew that it would not be the last spilled fuel he’d wear today. “I guess we know who Deathsaurus is sweet on,” he said in a low voice.

Drift vented heavily. “Deathsaurus and Tarn. Who would’ve guessed.” He shook his head. “I know Deathsaurus has a reputation for doing crazy things but dragging the head of the DJD into his berth after being on the List for so many centuries…that’s one for the history books.”

“I know you and Deathsaurus are friends. I…”

“If you’re trying to make me feel better by saying you think Deathsaurus is being coerced, don’t. I know Deathsaurus. He wears his heart on his shoulder—always has. He’s over there with Tarn because he wants to be, just like we’re here with Rodimus because we chose to be.” Drift shook his head. “Right now, Deathsaurus would say that us trying to survive is perfectly understandable, and him trying to kill us is nothing personal.” 

“Wonderful. Excuse me if I still hold a grudge about the attempted slaughter bit.”

Drift was quiet for a moment. Then he said softly, “Are you sorry we came back?”

“What?” 

“On our way here you said maybe we shouldn’t rejoin the crew. That we should go to Ghennix or something.” 

Ratchet shook his head. “The second I got that emergency call I knew I couldn’t do anything else.” He looked at Drift with uncertainty building in his spark. “You?”

“Same.” Drift’s optics glittered. “I just….I mean, we’re gonna be up against the DJD, Ratch, and all Deathsaurus’s crew besides.”

“Yeah.” 

They didn’t need to say anything more. Both of them knew the odds.

“This time…” Drift drew in a ragged breath. “I keep thinking about that rooftop on Messatine. This time I don’t want to miss my chance to say thank you.”

“For what, kid?”

“For coming to find me. For saving my life in Rodion. For everything.” He clasped Ratchet’s hand. “For being _you_.” 

It was awkward, giving that they were holding hands over Ten’s chest. Ten, for his part, appeared to be napping, but might just be pretending to try to give Ratchet and Drift the illusion of privacy. But Ratchet knew that this time there might not be a _later_ to have this conversation.

“I don’t regret any of it,” Ratchet said. “It doesn’t matter how this ends. Loving you…it was worth it. No matter what.”

Ratchet leaned towards Drift, and Drift moved forward to meet him, but before they could kiss, Ravage’s voice interrupted them. “If you Autobots are _quite done_ …you’ll want to brace yourselves. We will be landing in ten….nine…eight…”


	4. Shelter and Shade

Chapter Four: Shelter and Shade 

_During MTMTE 52_

In the end, Drift didn’t mention Rodimus’s flirting after all. 

Rodimus had said that he wanted things to go back to the way they were, and Drift…Drift had just smiled, and let it go. 

Yes, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t, but at the time he hadn’t realized that the rest of their lives would be measurable in hours. 

In the end, Drift accepted Rodimus’s apology and decided that it was enough. Given the situation, did he really want to spend the last moments of his life awkwardly explaining that Rodimus might be his best friend, but Ratchet was his conjunx endura, and Rodimus had to stop making suggestive remarks and laying his hands on Drift’s frame? No. When would Rodimus get the chance to do those things again? That conversation didn’t need to happen any more. Time had caught them up and passed them by. 

Rodimus told him that they were going to make it off Necroworld alive, but Drift knew that Rodimus had lied to him before. They both knew it. But Drift forgave Rodimus one more lie. 

In the end it was enough for Drift to know that before he died, he’d gotten his best friend back. He hoped it would be enough for Rodimus to know that Drift had forgiven him for letting him take the blame for Overlord. And for later on, telling the crew the truth, but still being afraid to come after him and offer his apology. 

Drift ran his hand over his forearm, where Ratchet’s engraving lay etched into the living metal, and realized that he was not the only one who’d needed to be forgiven. 

There was really only so much time Drift could spend polishing his swords, but he didn’t know what else to do to keep busy. Drift and Rodimus had sat together for a while, but Rodimus had needed to go survey the defenses, and Drift had agreed that was wise. After Rodimus had left, Drift had considered going to speak to the others, but he didn’t know what to say. Every time someone had said they were glad to see him, Drift wondered if that gladness had anything to do with him as a person, or everything to do with the thought of his swords against the enemies massing outside. He hated the fact that he was going to his death and his greatest legacy was still his reputation as a bloody killer. 

But there were some things he couldn’t change. 

Drift thought back to that horrible vision he’d had—the one where the DJD had attacked the _Lost Light_. Drift had rallied some of the crew to strike back against the DJD—at least, he’d said he was striking back. In truth he’d just wanted to rescue Ratchet from their clutches. Ratchet had been working desperately in the medbay to save who he could when the DJD had overrun the medbay’s defenses. 

In his vision, Kaon had blown out Ratchet’s optics, but Ratchet was still alive when Drift and his forces arrived in the medbay. Drift had felt hideous for leaving the others behind in order to help Ratchet get away. He’d told himself that saving the medic was worth some losses. He’d told himself that against the DJD your only choices were to die fighting or die screaming—surely it had been a kindness to lead a counterattack and give his followers a chance to fall in battle. He’d told himself both those things, but in truth he didn’t know what he was doing, or how he and Ratchet could possibly escape. Drift had only prolonged the inevitable. He’d only brought them a long, slow death rather than a quick and clean one. 

But there’d been nothing _clean_ about what Kaon had done to Ratchet, and Drift could not leave Ratchet to the DJD, not even to save his life. Not even to save his soul. 

Drift had left the _Lost Light_ because he’d believed that his vision would come true if the _Lost Light_ lost Rodimus’s leadership. Later, Ratchet had told him that the vision had already come true, in a sense: that it was a ship of quantum duplicates who’d died at the hands of the DJD. The danger was over. Drift could come home. 

Now, sitting in a dark little room on Necroworld—not all that different from the storage closet on the _Lost Light_ where the other Drift had died—Drift sobbed and wondered if he could have done anything to change the way that he and Ratchet were going to meet their ends. 

_There’s a lesson here about trying to escape your fate, isn’t there?_

_I did everything I could, and look what’s happened._

_Rodimus lost his captaincy anyway._

_The DJD are coming to kill us anyway._

_Ratchet’s going to die, and the DJD are going to make him suffer first, and you…you’ll sell out everyone again just to keep Ratchet alive a few minutes more._

_And then you’ll die hiding in some dark little room just like this one. Die huddled here with Ratchet in your arms. Die with your own sword rammed through your head, leaving Ratchet blind and helpless against whatever they’ll do to him after you’re dead._

_And your love for Ratchet, and Ratchet’s love for you, won’t make a damned bit of difference._

Maybe the moral of the story was that this time Drift should _fight_ and never stop fighting. Not pause to help Ratchet or Rodimus or anyone else. Just kill—it was all he’d ever really been good for anyway. To hell with Megatron’s newfound pacifism—Drift wasn’t Megatron, and he shouldn’t aspire to be. He didn’t want to die hiding with Ratchet and… 

_Where’s Hound?_

Drift realized that he hadn’t seen Hound in the group outside. Had the Primal Vanguard veteran stayed behind with Getaway? Drift would’ve thought better of Hound, but suddenly his fuel pump sped up with a thought that renewed his hope.\ 

_This isn’t the_ Lost Light _. Hound isn’t here. Rodimus is still alive. That future isn’t fixed, and you can still change the outcome._

_This time, you don’t let Kaon get his hands on Ratchet._

Drift felt a savage exultation fill him. Just when he’d started to feel guilty about threatening an innocent animal. He would threaten the DJD’s Pet all he had to, to keep Ratchet safe. 

He would stand in front of Ratchet and kill and kill and kill and not let anyone touch his mate while he still breathed. 

No sooner had Drift vowed to do whatever it took than he heard a soft voice calling his name. “Drift?” 

Drift looked up from his already immaculate swords. Ratchet stood in the doorway. 

“Can I come in?” Ratchet asked. 

“Yeah.” Drift rose to his feet and slid his swords back into their sheaths. “What’re you doing here? Don’t you have to build a makeshift medbay?” 

“I left Velocity in charge of that for a while.” 

Drift couldn’t help raise an optic ridge. “ _You_? Left someone _else_ in charge?” 

Ratchet shut the door behind him and walked swiftly to Drift’s side. “It might have taken me my whole damned life to learn when to hold on and when to let go…” He cupped Drift’s cheek in his palm. “But I think I’ve finally figured it out.” 

Drift slid his hands around Ratchet’s waist, automatically feeling guilty for being glad that Ratchet was here with him instead of out with the others. “I know you have important things to do…” He forced a smile. 

“And Velocity will call me if there’s an emergency, but right _now…_ ” Ratchet drew in a raspy breath. “Right _now_ , if this is all the time we have, I don’t want to waste it.” 

Drift stood dumbstruck. What should he say? What should he do? His mind raced madly in circles, thinking of something, _anything_ , meaningful enough to be worthy of this moment. He came up blank. Blank. Blank. 

Fortunately, Ratchet had made a living out of breaking down life-or-death situations into incremental steps. And Ratchet clearly knew exactly what the next step should be. 

He pressed his mouth against Drift’s, and suddenly Drift realized that he had no need to say anything. 


	5. Long To Grow Old

Chapter Five: Long To Grow Old 

This wasn’t how Ratchet wanted his last encounter with Drift to be. 

If he’d had it in his power to ask for one final wish, he’d be in that villa on Ghennix with Drift tonight. A huge, soft berth with silken chamois sheets and the scent of sweet blooms in the air. Dim lighting, soft music and a platter of those sweet candies Drift liked so much. They’d share pleasure long and slow, hold hands and talk long into the night, and just before dawn, make love one last time. 

But reality never measured up to fantasy, and so Ratchet’s last chance was here, in a dark little room in the Necrobot’s fortress, with Rodimus and crew outside, threatening to burst in and interrupt at any moment. 

Ratchet’s hands slid down Drift’s back, heading straight for the sweet spots where he knew Drift liked to be touched. For a moment he fumbled, because Drift’s new frame wasn’t quite the same as the old, and it took him a few hesitant touches to find the right places. Drift said nothing, just cuddled close and sighed. 

“I don’t have time to _take_ my time,” Ratchet said apologetically. He was always so afraid of pressuring Drift, of rushing him into anything he wasn’t ready for. “But I’ll stop if you…” 

“Don’t you dare.” Drift’s voice was a throaty growl. “Ratchet, I want you. Don’t you _dare_ stop.” He nipped Ratchet’s neck for emphasis, then soothed the spot with his tongue. 

Ratchet bit back a sob. He might have time later to grieve the fact that the time he’d had with his conjunx endura had been so short. In all honesty, though, he probably wouldn’t mourn at all. It was much more likely he’d be up to his elbows in his companions’ innards right up until he had to start fighting for his life. He’d be able to numb his feelings in work, as he always had, and it was a mercy, of sorts. For once he hoped that combat would numb Drift just as well. 

But for now… 

Ratchet would not mar this last encounter with tears. 

He slid his hand over Drift’s pelvic covers. “What do you want?” he asked, pressing against both sets of equipment, letting Drift make the choice. 

“Me. Jacked into you.” Drift drew back to look Ratchet in the eyes, as though seeking permission. 

Ratchet only nodded. Yes, that sounded good to him. He removed the covering from his valve and looked down at the floor. It looked hard and cold but it would have to do. 

Drift had other plans. 

Drift swung Ratchet around, sending him staggering backwards as his mouth and teeth devoured Ratchet’s lips, his throat, his chest. Ratchet stumbled under the onslaught until his back came in contact with the wall. Drift stepped up, pressing against Ratchet, and Ratchet realized belatedly that Drift’s cord was already prepped for action. As Drift leaned into him, Ratchet realized what his conjunx intended to do. 

“You can’t pin me against the wall, Drift,” Ratchet said, half incredulously. The other half…well, he was a bit more turned on than he wanted to admit. But it just wasn’t practical. “I’m too heavy.” 

Drift’s response was to swing out his left arm and send something crashing to the floor. Ratchet couldn’t see what it was. The lighting was too dim and Drift was too distracting. But he could tell where the object or objects had been—a narrow but sturdy-looking shelf that was just high enough off the ground to…. 

“Drift, you can’t be serious,” Ratchet said, though a tingle in his valve told him that at least part of him hoped that Drift was, in fact, serious. 

“Do you want this or not?” Drift’s voice was a sensual growl. He reached up and tweaked Ratchet’s forehead chevron for good measure. 

Ratchet felt his valve flood with moisture. 

There was really no point in lying now. “Yes,” Ratchet confessed, and he did his best to climb up onto the shelf while Drift nipped at his jaw, his throat. All he could do was hope that the shelf was strong enough to bear his weight. 

Drift wasted no time shoving his way between Ratchet’s thighs. Ratchet didn’t bother to hide the loud rev of his engine as he felt Drift against his valve, so wet and ready. 

For all his roughness—for all Ratchet could see Deadlock in his conjunx’s optics—Drift still hesitated on the verge of interface, just long enough to ask permission in a low, rough voice. “Ratchet?” 

“Yes,” Ratchet whispered, and Drift jacked into him in a single forceful motion, stuffing his valve with his cable and burying his jack into Ratchet’s waiting port. 

Ratchet had never seen Drift like this. 

But in the next moment, Ratchet realized that statement wasn’t entirely true. Ratchet had seen Drift— _Deadlock_ —like this, once before. The night when they’d both consumed Whirl’s Syk-laced concoction. 

That night Deadlock had been disoriented and frightened, and he protected himself by responding to Ratchet with threats and cruelty. Right now, Drift might well be afraid, but not of _Ratchet_. So while he was unusually aggressive and forceful, thrusting into Ratchet with a predatory hunger, Ratchet could also tell that Drift was being careful not to hurt him. Drift’s grip on Ratchet’s thighs was tight, almost uncomfortable, but not quite painful. Drift was rough, yes, but not brutal. And Ratchet was sturdy enough to withstand Drift’s powerful, hungry thrusts. He wrapped his legs around his mate’s waist and asked for more. 

Drift was more than happy to comply. 

Ratchet wondered if Drift had seen this sort of thing as a commonplace occurrence during his years in the Decepticon army. Drift had told him he’d avoided interface, and Ratchet still believed him, but even if he hadn’t done this himself, surely he would have seen his fellow Decepticons burning off stress before a mission, or celebrating their survival afterwards, via quick, dirty frags in side alleys or equipment storerooms. Ratchet had heard that Decepticons, generally speaking, weren’t particularly shy about indulging their appetites and even the Autobots said that constructed-cold bots were easy. 

This sort of behaviour was surprising coming from Drift, who was ordinarily shy until he got revved up, but it would be normal for Deadlock. With the DJD looming over them, Deadlock had come close to Drift’s surface, and now, as Drift fragged Ratchet with an intensity Ratchet had never experienced, the medic realized that the barrier between his mate’s two personae was blurring, perhaps breaking. 

Drift sank his sharp teeth into the side of Ratchet’s neck, and Ratchet gasped from the sudden sting, though he shouldn’t be surprised. He knew that the taste of a lover’s fuel was Drift’s kink; but Drift had always asked for it so shyly before, or waited for Ratchet to offer it to him. Deadlock reached out and _took it_ , and while Ratchet believed that Drift would stop if he told him to, Ratchet didn’t want to chide his conjunx for being a little presumptive right now. 

Truth be told, Ratchet found it strangely exciting. 

Ratchet should be _worried_ about Drift reverting to Deadlock, but for some reason this new aspect of his mate was really spinning his turbines, and Ratchet threw back his head and moaned as Drift sucked on his neck, pulling fuel from his lines. “Yes,” he murmured. “ _Yes, Drift_ .” 

Drift withdrew his fangs and growled something Ratchet couldn’t hear, and then the cool swipe of his tongue soothed the bite and lapped up the last traces of Ratchet’s energon. 

Ratchet sighed. 

“You want me?” Drift said, and though there was a snarl in his voice, there was a softness in his optics. 

“I want _all_ of you,” Ratchet said, and meant it. “My love.” 

Drift’s response was a wordless growl, and he lunged forward, jacking in deeper than ever, as though he could weld the two of their sparks together by force, and no one else would ever dare separate them again. 


	6. Share Your Road

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Safe travels to everyone headed home from TFCon USA. Wish I could've been there.

Chapter Six: Share Your Road 

Drift wasn’t sure what had gotten into him. His thirst for Ratchet—an omnipresent desire—had opened up into a vast abyss of longing in his spark. It was as though Drift had to cram the lust of what should have been millions of years of partnership into a single moment. 

But as he thrust into Ratchet’s valve, he felt a sudden instant of fear. 

“Ratchet,” he panted, “is this all right?” 

He’d always felt a little shy about asking for what he wanted. He’d always been scared of letting too much of his darker nature come to the fore. He feared that if he let his other self out, that he’d never be able to rein it in again—and Deadlock was all hunger and anger and envy. Drift knew better than to let his desires hurt others. 

Not again. 

Not _ever_ again. 

_Especially_ not the person he loved more than anyone else. 

Ratchet sat with his aft precariously perched on a narrow shelf that Censere had used to hold….Drift didn’t know, and didn’t care. It held his mate, now. It held Ratchet, his solid and unshakeable rock, while Drift was a restless ocean who crashed against him over and over and waited to come undone. 

“Come on, kid,” Ratchet murmured. “Come on and give me everything you’ve got.” 

_I want all of you_ , Ratchet had said. 

Drift’s mouth was sweet with the aftertaste of energon. He’d bitten Ratchet, lapped up fuel from the bite. Ratchet wasn’t into fuel play the way Drift was, but he let Drift do it anyway because he knew Drift liked it. Drift had been surprised that Ratchet was so accepting of an act considered the utmost intimacy in the gutters of Rodion and either disgusting, predatory or both by most of the rest of society. 

Somehow Ratchet kept surprising him over and over again. 

Here he was, fragging Ratchet like…well, like a ‘Con…with Ratchet’s valve yielding before his onslaught and Ratchet’s fuel in his mouth and all Ratchet had to say to him was _I want all of you…give me everything you’ve got._

Drift cried aloud, and did as Ratchet bade him. 

The last vestiges of his self-control shattered. Drift fragged Ratchet hungrily, desperately, like an animal mad with lust. Ratchet, instead of trying to shove Drift off or squirming to get away, clutched Drift around the torso and dug his fingers into Drift’s back and clung tight. Ratchet’s valve pulsed and throbbed, swallowing down everything Drift gave. 

Ratchet uttered a sound of pure need in Drift’s audio. 

Drift found enough energy within himself for just a _little bit more_ , and Ratchet reacted with a cry of joy on his lips and a flare of light in his optics. 

Drift gasped as he watched his mate throw back his head, his whole frame shaking with ecstasy, his valve gripping Drift’s cable in wild, syncopated pulses. There was no way for Drift to endure it. He overloaded as well, pouring data into Ratchet’s waiting port. Drift cried out, heedless of who might hear. 

An instant later Drift cursed himself for being noisy. The last thing he wanted was Tailgate opening the door, innocently asking what was happening in here, or worse, Ultra Magnus scolding them both for wasting time. No sooner had that thought crossed Drift’s mind when he thought of something even more unappealing: Brainstorm, Skids, and Nightbeat, applauding and whistling at his performance. 

Drift tried to focus his thoughts. _Ratchet_. He thrust his hips once, then again, but he no longer had the energy to maintain interface. 

“Kid,” Ratchet panted. “Let me down before this shelf breaks.” 

Nervously, Drift backed up, pulling away from Ratchet. He let Ratchet grasp hold of his shoulder as he slid to his feet. Drift noticed that Ratchet’s legs were a little shaky, but by Primus, Drift could do better than that. 

“You want more?” Drift asked, almost desperately. Hands. Mouth. Ratchet’s spike in Drift’s valve. Drift didn’t care. “I can give you more than one overload.” 

Ratchet looked up, and a little smile graced his lips. “I bet you can,” he said, and suddenly Drift felt better. He hadn’t let Ratchet down after all. 

Drift kissed Ratchet, gently this time. Tenderly. Ratchet parted his lips, touched his tongue to Drift’s. They kissed long and slow, their arms wrapped around one another. 

And then Ratchet’s pager went off. 

Ratchet drew away from Drift with a curse and opened his comm link. “Ratchet.” His voice was gruff; his demeanour was all business now. Drift watched his warm and tender lover disappear into the Chief Medical Officer’s armour. Ratchet might have given up the role, but the persona of the Chief Medical Officer remained. 

Ratchet listened for a moment, then he closed the comm link and looked up at Drift. “Rodimus says Megatron’s on his way back to the fortress and he doesn’t look too healthy.” 

“On his way _back_?” Drift repeated. “Where did he go?” 

“To talk to Tarn,” Ratchet said grimly. 

Drift bit his lip. “If Megatron looks bad….does that mean Tarn looks _worse_ right now?” 

“No sign of Tarn, for what that’s worth. But Deathsaurus’s forces are still surrounding us.” 

“Megatron was on fool’s energon, though. I heard Velocity say he’s been given something to weaken him. And Tarn…” Drift swallowed. “Tarn does performance enhancers. Nucleon, nitrous, afterburner, the works. He used to…he used to keep asking me to hook him up. You know. Before.” 

“Fool’s energon isn’t real.” 

“ _What_?” Drift couldn’t believe what he was hearing. 

“It’s a flavour thing. It tastes awful but it…it isn’t real. It was a psychological trick. Make Megatron _think_ he was at a disadvantage if he tried to pick a fight.” 

Drift felt horrified. He’d struggled enough with the idea that Megatron was being…sedated or something to make him less dangerous. To learn that he was, as the saying went, being deceived… “Ratchet, how could you?” 

“Are you defending him now?” Ratchet glared. “Do you really think I’d administer something to a patient without knowing what it was? It’s a _test_. If Megatron was planning something nasty he’d stop taking his medicine and we’d have advance warning.” 

“Except Megatron still thinks it’s real. Everybody does. You pulled his punches for him. In a fight against Tarn.” 

“And after the first blow or two I’m betting he’s going to figure out he’s the same death machine he always was.” 

“So maybe he really did finish off Tarn.” Drift looked at the ground. “I don’t know what’s worse, Ratch. Tarn alive and out there after us, or Deathsaurus pissed off that we killed his new pal.” 

“I’ll take pissed off Deathsaurus over Deathsaurus _and_ Tarn,” Ratchet grumbled. “One less big Decepticon trying to kill us.” 

Drift shook his head. “You don’t know Deathsaurus. The DJD at least follow a script. Deathsaurus is crazy unpredictable. If he’s in charge now…” 

Ratchet sounded irritated when he replied. “Are you scared of him or do you feel badly about being on the opposite side from him? 

“If it’s just _him_ , maybe I can talk him down.” Drift felt his spark flare with a sudden desperate hope. “Deathsaurus hasn’t got any reason to fight _me_. Or _us_. We haven’t got anything worth taking—you know he raids to feed and repair his people. He’s probably only here because of Tarn and Tarn’s only here because…” 

Fear clenched Drift’s fuel pump in a cold, clammy fist. 

Drift gulped and continued. “Tarn’s only here because he’s obsessed with Megatron.” 

Maybe that obsession had gotten Tarn killed. Drift could only hope so. He felt badly for what that might do to Deathsaurus, but not badly enough to take it back when Ratchet’s life and his own were at stake. Drift wondered how in the universe two mechanisms as different as Tarn and Deathsaurus could have coupled up, but then he looked at Ratchet and remembered his lover’s words: _if we can team up, anyone can._

Drift drew in a shaky breath. “If Tarn’s dead, we can convince Deathsaurus that fighting us is more trouble than it’s worth.” 

“If Megatron killed his boyfriend?” Ratchet folded his arms. “I can’t believe I’m about to say this but…you think you can convince him, if he feels anything for Tarn like what I feel for you?” 

Drift expected Ratchet to roll his optics and ask who could possibly feel such things for Tarn, of all mechanisms, but Ratchet didn’t say anything more, and Drift supposed there were mechs out there who’d ask what kind of person could possibly feel such things for Deadlock. 

Drift sighed. “Look. I don’t know why Deathsaurus was so star-struck by Tarn of all people in the first place. Tarn started picking off Deathsaurus’s crew after Deathsaurus deserted. Charged them all as accessories to Deathsaurus’s crime. I don’t know how Deathsaurus forgave Tarn for that.” 

An idea occurred to Drift. He bit his lip. “I guess he called it just business, or something. Justified it somehow.” Drift vented heavily. “Love makes people reckless, Ratchet. They compromise their beliefs when feelings run too strong and trouble hits too close to home. Suddenly right and wrong doesn’t matter any more when it’s your loved ones on the line.” 

And Ratchet winced, as though Drift had slapped him across the face. 


	7. Hold Me Fast

Chapter Seven: Hold Me Fast 

_Love makes people reckless. They compromise their beliefs when feelings run too strong and trouble hits too close to home._

For an instant Ratchet wondered if Drift was really talking about Deathsaurus after all. Ratchet himself had come far too close to such a compromise himself. Ratchet hated Megatron— _truly_ hated him—and it was enough to make him wish that he could retract his medical oaths just long enough to kill the spawn of a glitch while he lay on Ratchet’s repair slab. Or even… 

There had been a time when Ratchet had not needed to do anything but stand back and let nature take its course, and Megatron would have slipped away into oblivion. Ratchet knew he would have gotten away with it. Everyone would have believed that he’d done all he could and it hadn’t been enough. And Primus, but he’d been tempted. The only reason he hadn’t was the knowledge that Optimus Prime, for whatever reason, wanted Megatron alive. 

But Drift was here next to him, a living reminder of what Megatron had done, and Prime was far away. 

For the next few hours, Ratchet would focus on the knowledge that in a fight against the DJD, Megatron really was their best weapon. 

Drift’s words to Ravage in the shuttle came back to him. _Maybe loyalty should belong to a principle and not a person_. It meant that Ratchet couldn’t forget his beliefs in right and wrong for anyone’s sake. He couldn’t break his code of ethics and tell himself it was okay because he was doing it for Drift. 

He had to fix Megatron. 

Ratchet snuck a glance at Drift. Drift’s gaze was distant, and Ratchet supposed that Drift might have been talking about Deathsaurus after all. Deathsaurus had taken up with Tarn and now he was acting out of character. Drift was upset because he and his friend Deathsaurus were now on opposite sides, and it was hard to keep things _just business_ where a mech’s mate was concerned. When those mates were Ratchet and Tarn, there was no way for the confrontation to end happily. 

Ratchet wanted to spend what time he had left with Drift, not with anyone else and most certainly not with Megatron, but he had a job to do and he had to believe that there was a chance they might get out of this mess alive. 

“Drift,” Ratchet said reluctantly. “Velocity needs me. I have to go.” 

“I understand.” Drift offered Ratchet a crooked grin. “I love you.” 

Drift leaned over to give Ratchet a sweet kiss on the cheek, but Ratchet was having none of that. He turned his head at the last minute so Drift’s mouth landed squarely on his own. 

Ratchet wrapped his arms around Drift and kissed him fiercely, possessively, hoping the gesture conveyed even a fraction of the emotions in his spark. If it were up to him he’d make sure Drift lived forever. 

When the kiss finally broke, Drift looked breathless. For a moment, Ratchet wondered if he’d gone too far. 

“Wow,” Drift panted. “I want to see more of that…” 

Drift cut off suddenly, as if he realized what he’d just said, and Ratchet felt a pang of sorrow, because their odds of being able to explore this new side of Ratchet’s personality were low and getting lower. 

“Then come back alive,” Ratchet said, and his voice was gravelly. 

He couldn’t ask Drift to knock off the heroics—that wasn’t who Drift was. All he could do was trust that Drift wanted to come back to him. 

Drift nodded. “I’ll do my best.” 

That wasn’t a _yes_. Ratchet saw a fierce, hard light in Drift’s optics and knew that _yes_ was a promise Drift couldn’t make, and as a result, he’d chosen not to lie. 

“I love you too, kid,” Ratchet said, and meant it, more than he’d ever meant anything. 

A loud clatter rose in the hall outside, and Ratchet guessed they’d brought Megatron into the fortress. He was late. The others would be wondering where he was. 

Still, he kept his gaze on Drift a moment longer, and then, his spark leaden, he wrenched himself around and took off out the door at a run, feeling the familiar spike of natural boosters in his system as the mantle of the Chief Medical Officer wrapped around him once again. 

# 

_During the beginning of Lost Light #1_

__

They’d survived. 

Ratchet sat against the wall in the Necrobot’s fortress and listened to the droning voice of Ultra Magnus launch into the beginning of what was certain to be a very long, very detailed briefing for the mechanisms who’d recently emerged from the stasis pods. Ratchet was certain that if he got up and looked in through the door, he’d see those mechs going out of their minds with boredom. Ratchet suspected that the briefing was a comfort of sorts for Ultra Magnus—a way for him to avoid having to come to terms with what they’d just survived. 

Ratchet had no such comfort. 

Velocity was in command of the med bay, repairing Rodimus at the moment, and though Ratchet felt sorely tempted to take over from her, he forced himself to stay put. There was no point in his survival if he just kept making the same old mistakes. Velocity needed a comfort for herself, too; and she needed to learn to come to terms with the aftermath of a battle unlike any Caminus had ever seen. 

Besides, Ratchet was tired. 

So tired. Ratchet felt as though he had to force his fuel pump to keep beating and coerce his vents to go on inhaling and exhaling. Perhaps it would be easier just to…. _stop_. Then he wouldn’t have to face what he’d done and what he failed to do, without even a massive workload to protect him by giving his mind something to focus on. 

His brain somehow found energy enough to form a list of regrets. 

Ravage. Ratchet had done his best but there was only so much he could do with limited resources and such grievous damage to a bot with such a small frame. At the end Ratchet had let Velocity look after him, partly because there was nothing more Ratchet could do but also partly out of…Ratchet couldn’t tell if the impulse to let Velocity experience a lesson of warfare was wise or just cruel. She’d had to watch while Ravage faded away so that Ratchet could… 

…so that Ratchet could eulogize Skids. 

Primus, but he’d fragged that up. He’d been so sure that Skids would suffer a mental breakdown. He’d had a plan rigged up to pump Skids full of sedatives so he wouldn’t suffer, and then—on the long shot that they survived—then he’d bring Skids back online and begin slowly, carefully treating him with assistance from Rung, Chromedome and Velocity. Ratchet wondered what he’d overlooked. He’d never suspected that Skids’s _spark_ would bear the brunt of the damage. He hadn’t known what to do when Skids started flickering. Perhaps if First Aid…but First Aid wasn’t here, and neither were his jumper cables, and they couldn’t have spared anyone from the battle to jumpstart Skids’s spark anyway. 

And then there was Megatron. 

Once again, Ratchet didn’t know if he’d been trying to maximize the odds of their survival or just vent his vitriol when he’d chewed Megatron out. It had irritated him to see Megatron dithering while Drift was out on the field fighting. Perhaps he didn’t want to believe that Megatron ever struggled with self-control. It was easier when he could think of Megatron as an implacable force for evil rather than a powerful but otherwise messed-up person just like everyone else. 

He knew Drift’s words had been hanging heavy in his thoughts: _you pulled his punches for him_. Both ethically and strategically, Megatron needed to know that he wasn’t crippled, either physically or psychologically. Funny how Megatron’s fear hadn’t been physical hobbling but the idea that his thoughts weren’t his own. 

Ratchet thought back to his encounter with Bludgeon and wondered if anyone had ever tried to tamper with Megatron’s brain module. If Megatron, like Ratchet, wondered if some of his thoughts were born in his spark or out of someone else’s meddling. Ratchet also wondered what Megatron did about the thoughts that didn’t seem like his own. It gave Ratchet an entirely unwelcome sense of kinship. 

No, Ratchet wasn’t going to start feeling sorry for Megatron now, not after what he’d done to Drift, and not after Skids. There would have been no DJD to begin with if it wasn’t for Megatron assembling a unit of radicalized sociopaths to uphold their vision of the Decepticon cause. Skids wouldn’t have given his life to bolster their defenses. Skids _couldn’t_ have given his life because he never would have suffered a cataclysmic trauma in Grindcore to begin with. He never would have needed to forget in the first place. 

Skids’s death wasn’t on Ratchet. It was on _Megatron_. 

A thought crept into Ratchet’s mind, unbidden. If it wasn’t for Megatron, Drift might still be on the streets. Addicted. Selling his frame for either pleasure or pain—more likely pain. Drift had been a very gifted enforcer. 

It was the Decepticons who had taken him in, gotten him clean, given him both a job and a place to belong. It was _Megatron_. All Ratchet had ever done was tell him to put on a fresh coat of paint and drop by the Functionist Council office. Ratchet had never once considered what had brought Drift onto his slab to begin with. It had been easier to presume it was Drift’s moral failings. 

Ratchet wished this thought was Bludgeon’s doing, but he knew it wasn’t. 

He put his hands— _Pharma’s_ hands—over his face and sobbed. 

_Dying would have had one thing going for it_ , Ratchet thought wildly. _I wouldn’t have to make sense of a world like this_. 

Ratchet knew that was the stress talking—that he’d never seriously try to end his own life. The feeling would fade in time. 

But then Ratchet shivered with a horrifying realization. Maybe the only reason it had faded before was because Ratchet had buried it under mountains of work. Would it linger if he didn’t go back to his old bad habits? Would it stay with him, following him around, casting its shadow over him for the rest of his life? 

Ratchet felt panic closing his throat and sending his fuel pump hammering wildly. Ridiculous, because he’d kept it together all through the siege, all through the battle. But now…now…the danger was gone and his life was falling apart. 

There were creatures who lived deep in the depths of oceans, and in the crushing hearts of gas giants. Creatures that lived their entire lives under immense pressure that would crush an ordinary being. If you went down and caught one and brought it to the surface, it would explode in a spray of oil and spattering of gears. They needed the pressure to survive. Without it, they self-destructed. 

Ratchet wondered if he was like them. 

Ratchet staggered to his feet as a wave of dread washed over him. He had to hide away somewhere where the others wouldn’t see him on the verge of breaking down. He wheeled around, wringing his hands… 

…and crashed straight into someone. 

Horrified, Ratchet stammered an apology. He thought he was holding himself together, if barely, until he looked into the optics of the person he’d hit. 

_Drift._

Drift was here, battered and streaked with energon, both his own and others’. Fuel oozed from tiny cuts in his frame. A big black scorch mark bubbled the paint and seared the metal on his left side. He smelled of ozone and cordite and dirty oil and he was _alive_. 

“Hey, you okay?” Drift asked. 

Ratchet flung his arms around Drift’s shoulders and buried his face in Drift’s neck, because he was definitely not okay, but…but… 

“I hope so,” Ratchet said, his voice thick and rough. “Better now you’re here.” 

“I’m not going anywhere.” Drift reached down, caught up Ratchet’s left hand in his, and plastered it to his chest. Over his spark casing, Ratchet realized. Drift held Ratchet’s hand in place with both of his palms over top of it, and Ratchet took a deep breath and concentrated on the warmth seeping up through Drift’s frame. 

_He’s alive._

_We’re both alive._

Drift leaned close and whispered, “My vision didn’t come true after all.” 

Ratchet wanted to snort and say that of course it didn’t, but he held his tongue. That vision had shaken Drift badly enough that he’d stayed away from the _Lost Light_ to make sure it wouldn’t come true. Ratchet realized, belatedly, that Drift must have been afraid that it was coming true anyway over the last day. 

Logically, Ratchet knew that Drift’s vision probably worked on similar theoretical priniciples as Rewind’s memories of the Functionist universe—it was some kind of quantum science, and not divine or magical at all—but Ratchet was also beginning to understand that knowing something was often a different experience from feeling it. _A_ Drift and _a_ Ratchet had died together and _this_ Drift had experienced a glimpse of it. 

For the first time, Ratchet felt blessed. 

“That’s not us,” Ratchet murmured. “Those two—they died together—but _they’re not us_. We’re still here. Together. Alive.” 

Drift let out a deep breath. “I guess that means I have to figure out what to do about Megatron.” 

Megatron somehow felt like a small problem, but Ratchet knew that would change if the rusty old blackguard dared try to get his hooks into Drift again. He’d turned poor shy little Glitch into _Tarn_ , and desperate Drift into Deadlock…but he would _not_ turn Drift back into Deadlock a second time. 

“Megatron can wait,” Ratchet growled. “I’ve got you now.” 

Drift perked up, and a big grin crossed his face. “So…Barbarian Ratchet…show me more.” 

Ratchet immediately felt embarrassed. “Barbarian,” he muttered. 

“Well, what? You’d boot me out of the berth if I called you a warlord.” 

“You’re right, I would.” 

“Then you’re stuck with _barbarian_. Assertive and fierce and hungry….” Drift leaned closer. 

“You’re making fun of me.” 

“And you’re spinning my turbines and if you promise to show me more I’ll tell Rodimus that I’m…I dunno, inspecting or something.” 

Ratchet felt his own fans click on. “Inspecting _me_ ,” he grumbled, but there was no force behind his words. 

Drift put his lips next to Ratchet’s audio. “I was thinking the other way around.” 

Ratchet slid his hand out from under Drift’s and caught up the speedster’s wrist. “Come on then,” Ratchet said, his voice a rasp. “Back into the little dark room with you and let’s hope that shelf is still holding.” 

Ratchet still felt a little silly, but he couldn’t deny that he was intrigued. Drift flashed a winning smile, showing that he understood Ratchet’s “orders” as part of a mutual game. 

Maybe he was avoiding coming to terms with serious thoughts. Or maybe his mind had simply latched on to a new method of self-defence—one that was at least more healthy than an obsession with never-ending work. 

Ratchet reminded himself that post-combat fragging was normal among the Decepticon forces. Deadlock would think this was a natural thing to do. And now Drift had someone he actually wanted to do it with. 

The more Ratchet thought about it, the more he realized that a private celebration with his mate was probably healthy. He had a new lease on life. He should use it to try new things. 

Then they were through the door, back in the little room, and Drift pressed his frame up against Ratchet’s and suddenly Ratchet wasn’t thinking of anything other than Drift. 


	8. Out of the Woods

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I started writing this story, I realized how hard it was to give Drift and Megatron even a couple minutes to sit down, catch their breaths, and talk to each other. They always seem to be in different places, wrapped up in life-or-death events, or focused on other people. 
> 
> I've found a solution--assuming there was some down time in Adaptica for everyone to fuel, recharge, rest, and talk--so the timeline is now laid out. Drift will be having some important conversations with both Megatron and Rodimus, and Ratchet has some issues of his own to sort out. 
> 
> So, this story IS going to do what it says in the summary. It'll take a few more chapters to get there, but it's coming, and in the meantime, more plot is building.
> 
> #

_During Lost Light #1_

Drift couldn’t believe what he was doing: bracing his arms on a shelf in a little-used room in the Necrobot’s fortress, lowering his forehead to the cool metal, lifting his aft into the air. He could feel a cool breeze against his bared valve. He could feel the thrill of battle still burning in his veins, an intoxicant all its own. What he couldn’t feel was fear. 

He’d always thought he hated this position. He’d always thought it was frightening when he couldn’t see the mech behind him. He couldn’t properly brace himself for pain when he didn’t know when it was coming. Or how. 

But this was Ratchet. 

He could smell Ratchet from here. The scent of medbay—disinfectants and recovery-grade fuel and spilled energon—clung to him wherever he went. Drift was not one of those mechs who found the aroma unpleasant. Drift had never understood why people said that medbays smelled like death. Drift had smelled far more than his share of death. Its fragrance was different. Medbays—Ratchet—they smelled like hope. 

Drift and Ratchet were playing a sort of game. Ratchet was pretending to be a barbarian, so everything he said and did was a little more aggressive than usual, a little rougher, a little more selfish. Drift would have balked if he’d been manhandled for real, but he was well aware that Ratchet was merely acting out a role. Ratchet’s actual grip was not so strong that Drift couldn’t break it if he truly wanted to. Ratchet’s touch, though presumptuous as befitted his role, was… 

Well. Drift honestly believed that if he told Ratchet to stop, Ratchet would. That made this game fun instead of scary. Drift knew he was safe, and he was thrilled to see Ratchet lose his inhibitions. Though Drift borrowed on some elements of his history to play up the role of the submissive mech overwhelmed by his barbarian lover, he didn’t feel any of the emotions associated with his old memories. Those bitter feelings lay buried in the grave of the past while Drift played his role. 

When Ratchet, his conjunx endura, had growled in his audio about what he’d like to do to Drift, well… 

It had just seemed natural for Drift to assume the position. 

Now Drift waited, and Ratchet kept him waiting long enough for him to wonder how he could have gone this far without even thinking about it. 

_It’s Ratchet. Trust him._

Drift felt something. Not Ratchet’s cable jacking into him. Certainly not a blow. Just a very soft movement against his anterior node. 

The next thing he felt was Ratchet’s chest against his back and Ratchet’s belly into his back. 

Ratchet tickled his node, and Drift bucked back against him. He felt Ratchet’s cord next, firm against his inner thigh. 

“I want to celebrate,” Ratchet growled into Drift’s audio. “Celebrate being alive.” 

“Give me what you’ve got,” Drift snapped back, and then purred, “Sir.” 

Ratchet did. 

And Drift loved it. 

Primus help him, but it was all so familiar. Post combat fragging—a Decepticon celebration of survival. Of having fought hard and in so doing, winning the right to see another day. Many of their adversaries lay on the ground outside, their spark chambers dark, their engines cooling for the final time—but Drift and Ratchet were here, _alive_ , and Ratchet thrust into Drift’s frame, and Drift canted his hips to meet him, and it felt good to be alive. 

He’d been so sure he was going to die. 

Suddenly, unbidden, Drift’s memory flashed back—how long? A hundred years? Two? It had been after another brutal battle. Another time he’d been certain he was going to die. Forty Decepticons against hundreds of Autobots. 

But one of those Decepticons had been Deadlock. 

And one of those Decepticons had been Megatron. 

That had been the last time, before Crystal City and the rebuild and Ratchet. The last time he’d been with someone other than Ratchet, doing this. 

Drift felt suddenly conflicted. He shouldn’t be dredging up the past. Not when he was in the middle of making love with his conjunx endura. 

But nothing killed the buzz quite like remembering that survival came with its own drawbacks. He couldn’t keep avoiding Megatron forever. 

Ratchet must have sensed something was amiss. He slowed his pace, reached down, and rubbed Drift’s anterior node with his sensitive medic’s hands. 

Drift let the pleasure wash his mind clean. No more memories. No more fears. Nothing but a future with Ratchet. 

Purified from thought, overload came easily. 

# 

The floor was a bit dirty, but Drift didn’t care. Neither did Ratchet, who lay flat on his back, panting heavily, his frame ticking as it cooled. Drift sprawled over him like a blanket, trapping the heat of their bodies in between them to keep them warm.  
They didn’t say anything. They didn’t need to, now. The important things had been said before the battle, when they thought they were going to die. Everything else—they now had the rest of their lives to say everything else. 

Drift dimmed his optics, hoping to draw out the afterglow. Unfortunately, a loud beeping noise shook him back to himself. Underneath him, Ratchet fumbled for his communicator, but Drift knew the tone all too well. 

“It’s mine,” Drift muttered. 

Ratchet cursed. 

Drift fumbled to activate the comm link. “Uh, hi?” he stammered, hoping that the person on the other end wouldn’t be able to hear the just-been-fragged tremor in his voice, or the rumbling of his fans. 

“Drift,” said the voice on the other end, “where _are_ you? I mean, how is it possible to get lost in a building this small?” 

_Rodimus_ . 

Drift couldn’t help looking over his shoulder at the door, as though he expected Rodimus to slide it open at any second. The last thing he wanted was for Rodimus to see his bare valve, or the fluid streaking his thighs, or Ratchet standing there behind him. 

_Why? What could be more natural than conjux endurae sharing a moment of intimacy?_

“Do you need something?” Drift stammered into the communicator as he slid his valve panel closed. 

“Yeah, I need some help with my paint job.” 

Drift looked down at Ratchet. Ratchet scowled and refastened his armour. 

“I’ll be there in a minute,” Drift said, standing up on trembling legs. “Where are you?” 

Ratchet’s scowl deepened as Rodimus answered. 

“Okay, see you soon.” 

Ratchet clambered to his feet and folded his arms with a glower. Drift sighed. He wasn’t even sure himself why he’d capitulated to Rodimus. 

“Ratch,” Drift said quietly. “You know you’re the most important person to me, right?” 

Ratchet lowered his gaze. “Nothing’s changed, has it? He calls and you go running.” Ratchet didn’t sound snarky or irritated or frustrated. He sounded tired. Tired and old. 

“Do you want him to come looking for me?” Drift retorted. He was shocked at the sharp tone in his voice, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. 

“Do you think he would?” Ratchet retorted. 

Those words cut. Because of course it had been Ratchet, not Rodimus, who’d come looking for him after his exile. Rodimus had explained why, and Drift had forgiven him, but… 

_But it was a lot easier to forgive someone when we all thought we were going to die._

Drift pressed his teeth together. _No. I still forgive him. And I’m going to give him a chance to show me that he’s sorry._

“He’s my best friend,” Drift said quietly. “And we haven’t had a lot of time to hang out since you and I got back. And now that we’re not all about to die, maybe it’s time for me to make some time for my other friends.” 

Ratchet sighed. “I’m not being fair, am I?” 

Drift felt uncomfortable. He didn’t want to put all the blame on Ratchet. “Look, I’ll tell him,” Drift said. “I’ll tell him…I’ll tell _everyone_ …that you and I are conjunx endurae. Okay?” 

Ratchet looked at Drift with an unreadable expression. The authority and arrogance of “Barbarian Ratchet” were gone. “He’s prettier than I am,” Ratchet whispered. “He’s a lot more like you.” 

Drift stared at his mate. “Are you seriously afraid I’m going to leave you for _Rodimus_.” 

Ratchet put his hand over his optics. 

Drift took the hand in his own and gently pulled it down. “Look. I meant what I said earlier. I love Rodimus as a friend. A best friend. But I don’t want to interface with him. I never did.” 

Ratchet let out a shaky breath. “Okay.” 

“But you…” Drift felt strange, but he pressed on anyway. “You can’t ask me to not be his friend any more. That’s not fair.” 

Drift expected Ratchet to argue, or say something snarky, but instead Ratchet squeezed his hands. “You’re right. It’s not. And good on you for setting that boundary. Just…just have some mercy on an old mech who might be a little jealous.” 

Drift pressed his lips to Ratchet’s cheek. “One of these days you’re going to believe you’re everything I want. I’ll make you.” 

“I hope so,” Ratchet murmured. He hugged Drift close. 

And then he let him go. 

Drift almost regretted it. He really didn’t want to have this conversation with Rodimus. He had no idea what would happen. What would he do if Rodimus laughed and denied any knowledge of flirting—claiming he couldn’t fix what he never intended to do in the first place? Or if he said that was just “how he was” and Drift had to take it or leave it? Or worse, what if he got angry? Drift could list some other so-called “friends” who had suddenly turned hateful and vindictive when they realized Drift would never put out for them. Turmoil came to mind. 

_Rodimus isn’t Turmoil._

_And maybe it isn’t worth having a best friend if that friendship comes with conditions attached. If you have to pay for it somehow. If the friendship falls apart when you don’t._

Besides, Rodimus would be a good dress rehearsal for another conversation that Drift really didn’t want to have. 

The one with Megatron. 


	9. A Heavy Heart

Chapter 9: A Heavy Heart 

_During Lost Light #1_

Ratchet took a quick look into the lecture hall. That was long enough to convince him that he didn’t want to stick around. Ultra Magnus was at full steam now, on Slide 382, and he wasn’t showing signs of stopping any time soon. Ratchet was not convinced that the newly awakened mechanisms from the stasis pods really needed to be briefed on Cybertronian history in _quite this much_ detail. If it had been up to him, he would have quickly outlined the creation of the Decepticons, the outbreak of the war, the organization of the Autobots, and the events that led to the current truce. 

But it wasn’t up to him, and maybe Ultra Magnus needed the comfort of a slide presentation filled with excruciating minutae in order to process their near escape from the clutches of the DJD. 

Ratchet had to admit he was feeling a lot better after….after what he and Drift had gotten up to in that little supply room. It wasn’t just the interface. He was feeling more confident that returning to the crew—such as it was—wouldn’t change their relationship in any significant way. 

_More_ confident. Not _entirely_ confident. Ratchet wanted to say that he was avoiding the makeshift medical bay because he wanted to allow Velocity to grow as a doctor and make good on his vow to stop micromanaging, but in all honesty, he was a little anxious about what would happen when Drift and Rodimus had their conversation. 

Ratchet hesitated in the hallway when he heard Rodimus’s voice drifting out of a room. 

From what he could gather, Rodimus was getting a new paint job and Drift was helping him. A strange priority, but again, looking death in the optics changed people. It had certainly given both Ratchet and Drift the courage to be a lot more daring in their intimate life. 

Ratchet listened, hoping to hear Drift bring up words like _conjunx endurae_ and _no more flirting_ , but instead he heard a little talk of Spectralism, a few tall tales from Rodimus, and a lot of joking and banter. 

_Drift’s right. You can’t expect him to drop his best friend._

_Rodimus had better be good to him, though, or I’ll shove my wrench so far up…_

Ratchet never had a chance to finish that thought. The floor shuddered beneath him. The whole fortress trembled. 

_I didn’t survive the DJD to die in an earthquake._

But before Ratchet could fully rouse himself into an appropriately cranky mood, the tremor subsided. Nothing appeared to be damaged. 

_I’m getting too old for this._

He was also too old to try to snoop on his conjunx and his conjunx’s best friend. That was the sort of thing hotheaded youngsters did. Mechs who didn’t know better. A relationship not founded on trust was no relationship at all. 

Ratchet went for a walk around the inside of the fortress. He didn’t feel like going outside. He didn’t want to see the dead Decepticons lying in the fields of blue flowers. He didn’t want to see the statues which the flowers clustered around. 

_How many flowers around my own statue?_

_How many around Drift’s?_

No. Better to stay inside. 

# 

Ratchet had been the bearer of bad news often enough in his lifetime. To an extent it was the nature of the profession. Every doctor he knew had told patients that scans had revealed reasons for concern. That diseases weren’t responding to treatments. That lifestyles would need to be adjusted for a “new normal.” 

And every medical professional during the war had told concerned friends and worried conjunxes and fretful amicas that their loved one had been beyond saving. 

Ratchet had done it more often than most. He was good at it, people said. He could deliver bad news with the right mixture of empathy and detachment. He could make people believe that he cared without falling apart himself. 

He _did_ care. 

And when he thought he _would_ fall apart, he considered the rest of the medical staff and put their burdens on his shoulders and pushed forward. He needed to be needed. It was the thread that held him together. 

He delivered the bad news so that the other medics didn’t have to, and he let their need for his guidance keep him going. 

But when Rung asked whether he’d seen Skids, Ratchet wished that someone else—anyone else—had told Rung the bad news. 

For a moment he almost sent Rung to ask Velocity. Give her the practice. Or Kaput. Put him back in the saddle. 

_You don’t need to protect Velocity and Kaput. You don’t need to make them need you._

But he _did_ need to do the right thing. Skids had been his friend too. He owed Skids that much. 

He took a deep breath. “Rung. We’re alive because Skids made a choice.” 

# 

Ratchet watched Rung moving away down the hall, his step noticeably slower, his gaze downcast. As always in these situations, Ratchet had done his best, and his best had not been what he wanted at all. 

_I wanted to save him._

_I should have saved him. Instead, he saved us._

Ratchet would never forget the kick of power through his systems as he’d been boosted by the forces that Skids had unleashed. The dark whisper in his mind had loved it. For once he’d had the strength to stop those Decepticons outside from hurting anyone he loved. He’d told them to halt, and they’d laughed, and opened fire and Ratchet had… 

…had ended their lives. 

They weren’t his first kills. But they had been his easiest. Ratchet did not like thinking how seductively easy it had been to take those Decepticons’ lives because they had not listened when he’d ordered them to stop. 

_Is this what every day feels like for Megatron?_

_So much power at his command—so easy to make problems simply go away in a fusion blast?_

Violence was typically ugly and messy and dirty and hard. Ratchet was glad he no longer had the super-boost. He didn’t want to think about how tempting it would be to use force when force was a convenient and simple solution. 

_Look at me. An eleventh hour reprieve and how am I spending my new lease on life? Wandering around by myself, moping._

Ratchet asked himself what he truly wanted to be doing. 

_Anything, as long as it’s with Drift._

Ratchet wondered if he’d ben intruding if he went to see how Drift and Rodimus were getting along in the reconfigured teleporter. The den, as Rodimus called it. 

It wasn’t spying if he just stood in the back of the room, was it? Truth be told, he wasn’t worrying about Rodimus any more. He was worrying about Drift. Wondering how Drift—with his addictive personality and his old cravings for violence—was coping with the loss of his sudden combat boost. 

A thought he didn’t even want to acknowledge whispered that some day some doctor would have to tell Ratchet what he had just told Rung. 

Ratchet wasn’t prone to catastrophizing. He shut that thought down before he’d even grasped it in its entirety. 

Until Rodimus stuck his head out into the corridor. 

“Ratchet, help! It’s Drift!” 

Ratchet’s heart leapt into his throat. “What…” 

He couldn’t even ask what happened before Rodimus cut him off. “He touched Anode and passed out!” 

Passing out was a symptom worth investigating, but rarely fatal on its own. 

Ratchet ran anyway. 

# 

_Visions again_ . 

Ratchet didn’t know what bothered him most. The fact that Drift had been reluctant to tell him—despite everything they’d been through together—or the fact that Drift had passed out for no apparent reason and then explained it all away by blaming it on some bizarre dream. 

Or maybe it was the fact that Drift’s visions had some truth to them. 

Drift’s first vision had been of the quantum duplicate _Lost Light_. At the time he’d never suspected the launch accident had created two _Lost Lights._ He’d shared memories with his other self and thought those memories were a premonition of his own future. Nautica would be able to understand how it worked. Ratchet wasn’t a quantum mechanic. For Ratchet it was enough to know that it was science, not mysticism, responsible for that vision. 

But what about the visions that had led Ratchet and Drift to cross paths, first with Deathsaurus, then with the _Lost Light_ ’s stranded crew on Necroworld? _Coincidence_ was wearing thin as an answer. 

Now Drift was seeing…what? Grimlock? He’d been in the wind since Garrus-9. The symbol ships lost in the Dark Nebula? An old Cybertronian mystery that had taken on the trappings of an urban legend. Sparkeaters, which Ratchet now knew to his sorrow were not just an urban legend. Rodimus. And Pharma. 

Ratchet didn’t know what to think about that. 

Pharma had tried to kill Drift. Tried to kill _him_. Succeeded in killing a number of his own patients. Thought it was better to make backhanded deals with, and schemes against, the DJD rather than ask anyone else for help. 

_And what about you? Would you make a deal with the DJD to save Drift’s life?_

_If Tarn had offered that choice to you, what would you have done?_

Ratchet didn’t want to think about that. 

Instead, he thought about Pharma, and whether there was anything he could have done differently. He wished he’d had the good graces to say goodbye propertly before Pharma had been posted to Delphi. Or…would their relationship have soured so badly if Ratchet had simply set Pharma free the first time he realized that Pharma was never going to stop sleeping around? Would things have turned out differently if Ratchet hadn’t clung so hard and driven Pharma to… 

_Stop. You’re not to blame for what he did. He chose to do things that were wrong. It’s not your job to prevent him from doing wrong. It’s his own._

A tiny, niggling thought burst free and made its presence known. 

_If Drift is right—if Pharma’s alive—then maybe it’s not too late._

_Too late to change the past, but maybe not too late to change the future._

Darkness stirred in the back of Ratchet’s spark. _Pharma killed Ambulon,_ it said. _He put you in the box. He tried to kill Drift. If he is alive…doctor…you should cut out his rust before it spreads to anyone else. He’s_ not _your patient. He’s a disease._

_It’s not that difficult, you know, even without superpowers. You know how the Cybertronian body works. You know a thousand ways to kill._

No, Ratchet wasn’t listening to that voice, either. 

_Drift. When you and Rodimus and Grimlock faced off against Pharma…where was I?_

_Why wasn’t your vision of you and me?_

Ratchet knew full well that the subconscious could use people’s images in symbolic and abstract ways. Dream-Rodimus might not be real Rodimus. And Drift couldn’t consciously control his sleeping mind’s associations. 

But if Ratchet was giving these visions any credence—and he hated the fact that he might be, and he swore there would be some scientific explanation—but if he was…then Drift and Rodimus had gone off into a dangerous situation, and Ratchet was…where? 

_Don’t tell me I’m getting jealous of dream Rodimus now._

Ratchet hated the way his thoughts were running him ragged. But there wasn’t really all that much that he could do. 

He wanted to get Drift to a hospital and check him over. Or rather, get someone else to check him over—medics weren’t supposed to treat their own conjunxes or amicas save in emergencies. But Ratchet trusted Flatline back on Cybertron, in Iacon General, a lot more than he trusted Velocity and Kaput in the Necrobot’s lab. 

So Ratchet let his thoughts keep running in circles as he lined up to crawl into the den-teleporter that would take him, Drift, and some of the others back to Cybertron. Rodimus could get a ship, and in the meantime, Ratchet would take Drift to see Flatline. 

_It’s going to be all right. You didn’t survive the DJD just to…_

And that was magical thinking, and realizing it made Ratchet’s fuel tanks sink. It was as though he’d caught nonsense from Drift, like a disease. He knew better. No amount of near escapes could serve as immunization against future disaster. 

But he couldn’t escape a creeping feeling that something was wrong. 

_I’m just looking at the odds,_ Ratchet told himself firmly as he got down on his hands and knees. _What’s the most likely thing to have happen? You get back to Cybertron, Flatline finds a loose wire and fixes it, and Drift stops seeing what he thinks are glimpses of the future. No point imagining problems that don’t exist yet—and might never exist._

_Think about problems that do exist. Like Megatron._

But as Ratchet crawled out the other end of the teleporter, that feeling of wrongness increased. He snapped at Roller, unable to hold himself back while trying to pinpoint some logical reason for that sensation. 

And while trying to identify where on Cybertron they were, because he didn’t recognize this place at… 

_What’s the most likely thing to have happen? Why did I ask myself that question?_

_Nothing that happens to us is_ ever _the most likely thing._

Ratchet had been present for the sparkeater, and Overlord, and Minimus Ambus. He’d heard about the duplicate _Lost Light_ and the personality ticks and Swerve’s sitcom Earth. He’d struggled to come to terms with Brainstorm’s time travel briefcase. 

But he hadn’t been prepared for this. 

He—and Drift and Rodimus and Megatron and the rest of their little group—had crawled out of that teleporter and into the world of Rewind’s nightmares. 

_It never stops, does it?_

The DJD. The earthquake. Drift passing out. The den. Rodimus. Megatron. Pharma. 

Ratchet just wanted a few moments to sit down and sort out his problems. 

Unfortunately, it looked as though they were going to have to wait. Once again, a much larger problem lay before them all. 


	10. Lose My Spine

Chapter 10: Lose My Spine 

_During Lost Light #2_

Drift had plenty to worry about. The shackles on his wrists, for once. The fact that he, and Ratchet, and a number of his friends were stranded in some kind of evil parallel universe. The Functionist theocrats holding them prisoner. 

Megatron, for Primus’s sake. 

But all Drift could think about was that newcomer, Anode. He ought to be worried about her interest in his Great Sword, or the fact that when he’d touched her, he’d passed out and experienced another vision. Instead, he kept replaying her teasing words when she’d seen him crawl out of the den with Rodimus. 

_Takes two, does it?_

So it wasn’t just Ratchet, then. If a total stranger thought that he and Rodimus were fooling around, what must the rest of the _Lost Light_ ’s crew think? It was past time for Drift to put an end to the rumours. 

_Just tell everyone that you and Ratchet are conjunx endurae. You don’t have to rush the formal ceremony. You just need to make your relationship public and put an end to the gossip._

Except that it didn’t feel like the right time, what with the Functionist hellscape and all. It was like when Drift and Ratchet had first rejoined Rodimus’s group. Misconceptions didn’t seem that important with the DJD at their door. 

_Do I just say it anyway? Or do I wait for us to escape with our lives?_

Last time he’d waited. Instead of doing anything—instead of risking a falling out with his best friend when they’d only just reconnected—he’d laughed and joked and let Rodimus lead the conversation and then the moment passed them by and they were in trouble again. 

It was like being back on circuit boosters. You knew you shouldn’t, you said you wouldn’t, and then you did it again anyway. Once again, Drift felt helpless to break the cycle. 

He told himself that at the very next opportunity, he’d talk to Rodimus. 

He knew already that he was lying. 

Drift was actually glad to see the giant statue of Primus the Warrior. It gave him something different to think about. 

Even if the words “survive and thrive” sent a chill down his spinal strut. 

For his vision to come true, he and Rodimus would have to survive. Escape this nightmare somehow. It was no comfort. 

If Ratchet didn’t escape, Drift didn’t want to make it out, either. 

# 

_During Lost Light #3_

__

The City of Adaptica (formerly Kalis) wasn’t Drift’s idea of Cyberutopia at all. But he supposed the people in this Functionist Universe had to take what they could get. A person faced with alt-mode genocide would absolutely consider this city, under the leadership of Nine-of-Twelve, to be a miracle. A haven. 

Nine-of-Twelve and Clicker had offered Rodimus’s crew fuel and an opportunity to recharge. They’d reconvene on the morrow to discuss what happened next. Drift saw the wisdom in it. They’d all been gulping fuel when they could during the battle with the DJD, and burning it almost as quickly, either by fighting or by fretting. Topping off their tanks and having a nice long rest would do them good. 

Except Drift couldn’t sleep. 

He wasn’t sure where Rodimus had gotten to. Nobody else had said anything when Drift had curled up on the same recharge slab as Ratchet and snuggled into him. 

Granted, the room they’d been given was small, and there weren’t that many slabs to go around. Roller and Minimus Ambus had been forced to share, if only because Roller was so big and Minimus so small. It was no surprise that Chromedome and Rewind were sharing. Even Terminus and Megatron had managed to fit themselves onto a single slab. 

Drift should be enjoying the feeling of sleeping next to Ratchet. Ratchet’s frame felt warm, and his arm draped over Drift’s waist should make Drift feel secure. Wanted. Safe. Instead, Drift just felt as though he’d been letting Ratchet down. 

His optics wandered over to Megatron. Megatron slept the same way with Terminus. Drift found it somewhat amusing that, like himself, Megatron was the little spoon. Terminus held him close, his nose nuzzled into the nape of Megatron’s neck in a protective embrace. Drift had never imagined Megatron needing—or permitting—another to defend him. 

Drift realized that just as he hadn’t yet approached Megatron, Megatron hadn’t approached him, either. 

It shouldn’t hurt. 

It did anyway. 

Drift sighed. He supposed that, like himself with Rodimus, Megatron prioritized a reunion with his long-lost friend over the messy possibilities of sorting out what the two of them might be to one another now. 

They’d have to do it sooner or later, but Drift wasn’t about to wake up Megatron to do it right this second. As with the DJD, Drift could sense impending danger. Megatron needed his rest. 

So did Drift, but he already knew he wouldn’t be able to force himself back into recharge. 

Drift eased himself out from underneath Ratchet’s arm. Megatron might be recharging, but Rodimus wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Come to think of it, Drift didn’t remember Rodimus entering the room with them. Perhaps he was standing watch or something. 

Drift decided to go to find him and have a heart to heart. Before something else went wrong. 

# 

Adaptica had a funny scent. Drift was familiar with the unique aroma of too many mechs crowded into tight quarters, but in addition to that, the fragrance of burning incense—some sort of religious ritual to honour Adapticus? –mingled with heavy exhaust to produce a smell that was uniquely Functionist Adaptica. He drew the scent into his air intakes as he stepped out the doorway onto the roof of the building where the _Lost Light_ ’s crew were resting. Drift figured it would be a good idea to get a sense of the layout of the place before he went out into the streets looking for Rodimus. 

Drift really ought to be more freaked out about being stuck in a parallel universe dystopia with no way home. But Ratchet was here with him, and for now, they were both safe. If Drift had any assurance that Ratchet would stay safe, he’d probably be okay living the rest of his life here. He didn’t exactly have that many friends, and he’d just lost another. Given what had happened on Necroworld, Drift doubted Deathsaurus would ever speak to him again. 

Drift ran his right hand over the plate on his left forearm covering his medical diagnostic ports. There was a single word inscribed on the underside: _forgiven_. Ratchet had one too. His said _together we are home._

Drift allowed himself a small smile. He was going to be all right. 

A small sound behind him made him turn sharply. 

Rodimus sat on a wall near the edge of the rooftop, kicking his legs. The sound Drift had heard was Rodimus’s heels hitting the wall. Rodimus seemed oblivious to Drift’s presence. 

_It’ll be okay. Just get it over with._

“Hey,” Drift said, as he came up behind his friend. He didn’t want to startle Rodimus in a place like this. 

Rodimus turned around. “Oh. Hi, Drift.” 

“Couldn’t sleep?” Drift took a seat on the edge of the wall next to Rodimus. 

“We have to get home.” Rodimus looked out over the city, an uncharacteristically serious expression on his face. 

“We’ll get home,” Drift said reassuringly. He knew that was what Rodimus wanted to hear. 

“How? This place is in chaos. Even if the Functionists have a teleporter, we’ll never get to it.” 

“Brainstorm,” Drift suggested. 

“Brainstorm was constructed cold. He doesn’t even exist in this world.” 

“He’s at…home, though, right?” It felt weird calling an entire universe _home_. “He’ll figure out a way to get us back.” 

“Drift, Brainstorm is a lunatic and, did I mention, a traitor?” 

“Ratchet told me.” Drift was surprised by Rodimus’s sudden pessimism. It wasn’t like him. He seemed to have changed since Drift left, in ways that Drift was only beginning to discover. The blue and purple paint job reflected Rodimus’s new inner reality. “Ratchet also told me Brainstorm did it for someone he loved. And, I mean, I think I get that. Wouldn’t you move heavens and earth for someone you loved?” 

“Yeah, maybe.” Rodimus bit his lip. “Shame none of us is Brainstorm’s boyfriend. Maybe he won’t even want us back.” 

“Brainstorm wants us back just so he can show off to Perceptor that he figured out how to bring us back.” Drift tried to keep his reply light, but Rodimus wasn’t buying it. 

“Perceptor’s a dirty traitor too. He’s a bigger traitor than Brainstorm is,” Rodimus snapped. 

Drift bit down the urge to defend Perceptor. Perceptor had been one of the first Autobots to show him any welcome. Though they had very different interests and outlooks, and not a lot in common beyond their stint with the Wreckers, Drift still considered Perceptor a comrade-in-arms. A battle brother. He didn’t like hearing Rodimus call Perceptor names, particularly when Perceptor wasn’t even here to defend himself. 

_You know, maybe instead of suppressing that urge, you should stir it up instead. Tell Rodimus you don’t appreciate him talking like that about one of your other friends._

Drift opened his mouth to say something, and found that his courage had utterly deserted him. 

_You still can’t tell Rodimus something you know he doesn’t want to hear._

_You haven’t changed at all._

Rodimus was looking at Drift as though waiting for Drift to agree. Drift was dismayed by his own cowardice. _How_ could he charge into battle against terrible odds with no fear at all, yet to simply disagree with his friend turned his knees to jelly and his fuel to ice? 

_Because you’re fine with dying, but you can’t deal with your best friend not liking you any more._

Pathetic. But true. 

_Well, I don’t need Rodimus to be my judge and jury. I have Ratchet. Ratchet loves me no matter what. So if Rodimus gets angry…I’ll be sad, but I won’t be alone._

Drift marshalled every bit of nerve he had. “We don’t know what Getaway told the others,” he said cautiously. “He might have lied.” 

Much to Drift’s surprise, Rodimus didn’t explode with rage. He slouched instead, staring at his feet. “They all hate me.” 

“You don’t know that,” Drift protested. 

“Whatever.” Rodimus’s optics were cold. 

Drift drew in a ragged breath, steeled himself, and rested his hand on Rodimus’s shoulder. Rodimus was still for a moment; then he relaxed, leaning his head against the side of Drift’s helm. 

Drift felt his fuel pump hammering. Not excitement. Nerves. Drift still felt anxious about touching people and it was _worse_ when it was Rodimus. Drift could easily imagine how Rodimus could feel Drift’s pulse pounding and think that touching this way was revving him up. That he was interested in something more. 

But Drift couldn’t imagine another way to comfort his friend. Words…words weren’t enough. People wanted contact. Touch. Connection. 

So Drift sucked up his own discomfort and gave Rodimus what he needed. 

_You came out here to fix your problem with Rodimus_ , Drift scolded himself. _Instead, you’re just making it worse._


	11. Wrestled Long With My Youth

When Ratchet woke up, Drift was gone. 

Ratchet couldn’t believe he hadn’t felt Drift leave. Usually the medic was a light sleeper. He had to be—he couldn’t dare be late to respond to an emergency call. Lives depended on his fast response. It was a testament to his exhaustion that he hadn’t woken up when Drift had slipped out from under his arm. 

Ratchet lit his optics, wondering if something was wrong. The room was still dark save for wan emergency lighting; everyone else was in recharge. And no wonder, given the tension of their showdown with the DJD, followed by their trip to Cybertron landing them in a parallel universe. 

No. Not everyone. In the far corner, the large shape of Megatron stirred in the dimness. 

Ratchet lay still and watched as Megatron carefully extracted himself from Terminus’s embrace and rose to his feet. 

Wherever Drift was, it wasn’t with Megatron. Ratchet couldn’t help but feel a little bit better about that. 

Then Ratchet’s systems spiked with alarm. Drift…he wasn’t sick, was he? 

_No. If something was wrong—if Drift had passed out again—I would have been summoned._

Ratchet relaxed. 

_I’ve got to stop assuming the worst of every little thing._

_I wish…_

Ratchet realized, to his surprise, that part of him regretted rejoining the crew. 

_It could be just me and Drift in a villa on Ghennix. Or, hell, stuffed into that shuttle, I don’t care. But ever since we came back it’s been the DJD and earthquakes and the Functionists and Rodimus and Megatron. And I’m so very tired._

_And…resentful._

Ratchet wasn’t sure why he felt this way. 

_You just want to be somewhere where you have Drift all to yourself._

_If this relationship can’t hack it with Rodimus and Megatron around, then you never really had anything._

Ratchet wished he had a little more faith. And a little more patience. It was driving him mad that there was nothing he could do to fix his current problems. All he could do was sit and wait for Drift. 

_You’ve got to trust Drift to sort this situation out. You can’t do it for him. You can’t tell Rodimus to stay away from him. You definitely can’t tell Megatron you’ll kill him if he even so much as touches Drift ever again. For a number of reasons. Like your medical oath. Your allegiance to Prime. And your sense of basic morality._

_Most of all, you can’t be sorry you came back. This is where you belong. You’re the…the former Chief Medical Officer, and you live to help people. It’s what you’re for._

Than another idea tugged at his mind. Helping people. What he was for. 

_This is a parallel universe, isn’t it? There’s another Anode here. We met her. Not the adventurer we left behind on Necroworld. A blacksmith Anode._

_Is there another_ me _here?_

A doctor… Ratchet felt suddenly guilty. He’d lived pretty well under the Functionists all those millions of years ago. Yes, he’d known that some of their policies were cruel; yes, he’d pushed the limits of their tolerance and opened his clinic in the Dead End. 

But he hadn’t really known how to connect with the people he’d treated in the Dead End. His worldview had been too limited. He hadn’t been able to imagine an existence so different from his own. He’d been good at patching their wounds, but not good at all when it came to understanding them. Or giving them what they really needed. 

A pep talk and a tip to go to the job office hadn’t been a long-term solution for Drift. Megatron had stepped in and offered Drift a solution that had actually helped him. 

_And Megatron helped himself_ to _him._

_And Drift became a killer._

_What happened to this universe’s Ratchet?_

Ratchet could guess. Functionist-Ratchet was probably still living in his own little bubble, wondering why the folks in Adaptica were making such a fuss. Oh, he’d be uncomfortable with the idea that people could become obsolete, but would he actually do anything about it? Or would he be going about his life, wondering why the laser pointers of the world hadn’t saved up their money to upgrade their frames, then, if obsolescence was such a concern? 

_Heh. That sounds like something Pharma would say._

Ratchet felt his fuel pump stop. __

_What happened to this universe’s Pharma?_

Wherever he was, he wasn’t making deals with the DJD. There was no DJD. No Megatron, no Decepticons, no Decepticon Justice Division. 

Ratchet wasn’t sure why his spark had started spinning. 

_Forget about Pharma. You have Drift now._

_There’s probably a Ratchet here. Pharma is his problem._

That thinking made sense. If Perceptor were here, he could probably come up with a hundred reasons why meddling around in an alternate universe was a bad idea. Ratchet and the others were already changing the time stream just by being here. What they ought to do was focus on surviving long enough to find a way to leave. 

_Brainstorm, hurry up and get us home._

What would Brainstorm do? Ratchet shuddered. Brainstorm wouldn’t care in the least about meddling where he ought not to be meddling. He’d say the fabric of time and space meant nothing next to love. 

_You abandoned Pharma last time and look what happened._

Ratchet didn’t want to think that Brainstorm might have a point. 

# 

Drift liked to tease Ratchet about being crotchety and set in his ways, but Ratchet had been a hellion in his youth, and now he’d discovered that his rebellious streak had never really left. It was like surgery—you never lost the touch. 

The office door had been locked. But Ratchet had a set of tools he could use to open up a person and reroute their fuel lines, their nerve impulses, their pneumatics. Opening up a simple lock was easy. 

Moments later, he sat in front of a simple communication station. The room looked like a clerk’s office: small, cluttered, a little dusty. There were no alarms. Nothing in here was that important. The lock was probably there to deter theft in a city full of desperate refugees. 

Ratchet looked at a comm device resting in its cradle. 

_Am I really going to do this?_

Before he could think better of it, he picked it up and pressed in a code he knew by heart. 

Four tones. Five. And then a pre-recorded message—in his own voice. 

“Hello, you’ve reached the home of Chief Medical Officer Pharma and Head Medical Administrator Ratchet! If this is a medical emergency, press this sequence to re-direct your comm to Emergency Response.” 

The voice listed a code that meant nothing to Ratchet. 

“If this is a work-related call, contact us at our offices.” 

Two more codes that Ratchet did not recognize. 

“Personal friends, leave us a message at the tone. Till All Are One!” 

The message ended. Ratchet cut the communication. 

_Since when do I say “till all are one?”_

Then the real question forced its way to the front of his mind. 

_Chief Medical Officer Pharma?_

And Alternate Ratchet was the head administrator. Ratchet wondered how _that_ had happened. He remembered his _own_ Pharma and how badly Pharma had wanted his job. Had Pharma finally badgered him or threatened him or…or _whatever_ …until Alternate Ratchet had found it easier to give in and step down and let Pharma have what he wanted? 

Ratchet folded his arms in a huff. Yes, Pharma had wanted his job, and Ratchet figured he’d hand it over someday, but the more impatient Pharma got, the more he whined, the more passive-aggressive he became, the more Ratchet had grown intractable, clinging to the job until it brought him to the edge of burnout, agreeing to leave for an alien world rather than admit he’d had enough. When Pharma’s games turned cruel, Ratchet’s stubbornness had been his retaliation, his way of fighting back. He had buried his hurt in his professional life, and then he had needed the CMO position more than ever. 

He hadn’t even objected to Pharma’s cruelty. He’d preferred to act as though he wasn’t bothered. As if he hadn’t even noticed. 

_We used to love each other. When did we become obsessed with antagonizing one another? When did our love turn into a rivalry?_

And then their relationship had gone cold. So cold they barely spoke. So distant that Ratchet had left for Earth, had let Pharma go to Messatine, without ever saying goodbye. They’d been long since split up by then, their union dissolved, but that they hadn’t even retained any kind of acquaintanceship after meaning so much to one another… 

_This Ratchet still lives with Pharma._

A sudden thought hit Ratchet like a bolt of lightning. 

What if…what if this Ratchet hadn’t been badgered out of his job at all? 

What if this Pharma had never turned cruel? 

What if this Ratchet had learned to let go? Learned to say goodbye? _Willingly_ left his position and taken a post that wouldn’t… 

Ratchet grumbled, reaching for metaphor to explain his feelings. 

A post that wouldn’t consume his soul. 

_Head Medical Administrator_ . A job that demanded extensive experience. He’d be in charge of developing all the procedures for all the hospitals on Cybertron. The person in that position would need to know all the demands on doctors in the field and design systems to meet their demands effectively, efficiently, and with maximum cost-savings. It would not be an easy job. 

But it would be a job that wouldn’t work his hands to the point of mechanical failure. A job that would give him down-time when he could go home. Home to Pharma. 

_What if I managed it? What if Pharma and I managed to make it work?_

Ratchet laced his fingers together. Pharma’s fingers. His Pharma’s fingers. 

_Don’t delude yourself. You couldn’t fix that relationship alone. Pharma would’ve had to have tried as well. Pharma would have had to change too._

Ratchet forced his hands apart. 

_What are you really looking for? This Pharma isn’t your Pharma. What, are you going to feel guilty that you couldn’t salvage your relationship, when maybe Head Medical Administrator Ratchet could?_

_Are you jealous of your other self?_

Ratchet recoiled at the thought. 

_Why would I want Pharma when I have Drift?_

He grabbed for the comm handset. 

_Drift._

Ratchet punched in the communications code without thinking. The line buzzed. 

Ratchet suddenly felt like an idiot. The code for his old condo was one thing. _This_ code… 

The line crackled open. 

_It’s going to be a stranger. Someone I’ve never heard of. In four million years this code would have been reassigned, and now it’s someone’s home, or place of business. It couldn’t possibly be…_

For the second time that night, Ratchet heard his own voice. 

“Rodion Clinic,” the voice said. “Ratchet here.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In order for this story to progress, I needed to make choices. Specifically, in this fic universe, certain relationships are going to be confirmed as romantic, some are going to be confirmed as platonic, and some are going to be negated. This is not a judgment about what ships are “better”; it’s just what I want to have happen in my story. Nor is it a comment on what canon “should” be, or an attempt to argue that certain ships are actually canon, despite a lack of confirmation in official material. Again, it’s just what I want to have happen in my story.
> 
> This is me, the writer, creating a story that is about characters figuring out where they stand with regards to their relationships. Some of those are romantic, some are platonic, some involve breaking up. Some are healthy, some are troubled, some turn sour and fall apart over time. In telling this story, it’s important to me that people and events evolve. I understand the appeal of stories where everything remains possible and nothing changes or progresses. That’s just not the kind of story that I want to write.
> 
> So: In upcoming chapters: Rodimus. Pharma. Megatron.


	12. You Know Your Desire

Chapter 12: You Know Your Desire 

Rodimus squeezed Drift’s hand. His head rested against Drift’s shoulder as the two of them sat side by side on a wall overlooking the city of Adaptica. 

Drift’s fuel pump hammered in his chest. What if Ratchet noticed he was gone from the room where the crew were recharging? What if Ratchet came looking for him and found him like this, with Rodimus? 

_Ratchet knows you’re not sleeping around with Rodimus._

But Ratchet had admitted to a certain amount of…envy? Worse. _Fear_. Fear that Drift wanted Rodimus more than him. 

Drift was afraid too. Not of being caught. Of…of Rodimus asking for more than he wanted to give. Worse. Of giving it to Rodimus anyway, because he didn’t have the courage to say no, because he was afraid of... 

Of what? 

Disappointing his friend? 

_Being abandoned by my friend._

_Or worse._

Turmoil, after all, had turned on Drift with breathtaking cruelty when Drift had said no to him. 

_So how’s Turmoil different from Rodimus? You told Turmoil no._

_Turmoil wasn’t my best friend._

_And I had Megatron, then._

Drift drew in a shuddering breath. He was not going to Megatron for help with Rodimus. If anyone, he should go to Ratchet. 

First, though, he asked himself if he really thought Rodimus was going to be like Turmoil. 

_Do you really think Rodimus would actively try to hurt you if you don’t do whatever he says? No, of course not. Rodimus is a better person than that._

_So tell him no._

_Tell him you have a conjunx endura now; that you hope the two of you can stay friends; that you’d like him for an amica endura. Tell him you’re willing to make that commitment. But tell him the touchy-feely stuff is over._

_Do it for Ratchet._

Drift felt a small glimmer of courage inside him. Not a lot. But hopefully it would be enough. 

“Rodimus?” Drift asked. 

Rodimus lifted his head and turned to Drift. His optics glowed softly. His lips curved into a smile. 

Then his optics flared with alarm, and he jumped back, practically throwing Drift’s hand away from him. 

Drift’s confusion must have been evident on his face, because Rodimus scratched the side of his face nervously. “Dammit, Drift, I’m sorry but I…I can’t!” 

“Can’t what?” Drift didn’t know what was going on. 

Rodimus looked embarrassed. “I… Drift, look, don’t get me wrong. I am really glad you’re back. I value our friendship a lot, and you’re really special to me, and I never could’ve gotten as far on this quest as I did without you. But…” He drew in a ragged breath. “Stuff happened while you were gone, and I…I’m seeing someone.” 

Drift blinked. He hadn’t expected _that_. 

“And it’s serious, and I…” Rodimus fidgeted. “You’re my best friend, but I knew he wouldn’t like it if he saw us, you know. Holding hands and flirting and stuff.” 

“Oh,” Drift said, feeling stunned. 

_My problem solved itself behind my back._

“So I…” Rodimus’s brow furrowed. “I really don’t want to hurt you, Drift. And I…I really hope you’ll stay my friend. If we can’t…can’t do that kind of stuff any more.” 

Drift sat helplessly, shocked into silence. 

Rodimus cringed. “Are you really mad?” 

Drift almost had to laugh at fate’s strange sense of humour, but first he had to rescue Rodimus from the sick, awful feeling he had to be struggling with right now. “I have someone too,” Drift blurted. 

Rodimus gawked at Drift for a moment before his optics lit up and his lips curved into a smile. “No way!” 

“Yeah,” Drift said, knowing he was grinning like an idiot. He didn’t care. “I was trying to find a way to tell you but…you beat me.” 

Rodimus laughed and leaned closer. “It’s not Ratchet, is it?” 

Drift felt caution tempering his joy. “Maybe,” he said warily. 

“It’s got to be. _That’s_ why he…” Rodimus cut off, as though recognizing he needed to choose his words carefully. “Were you guys courting before the exile?” 

Drift shook his head. “I thought I was too messed up to be courting anyone,” he said honestly. 

“But he liked you.” 

“Yeah, and I liked him,” Drift countered. 

“Since when?” 

“Since forever,” Drift admitted. “Since my bad old days in the Dead End.” 

“Wow.” Rodimus shook his head. “I didn’t know. I…I mean, I know you liked bugging him but I thought it was…I dunno, a joke or something.” 

“I annoyed the slag out of him because I liked him.” Drift sighed, wishing he’d gotten a clue sooner. “I didn’t know what else to do. I felt as though he ignored me when I was polite, so I got into his face and made him pay attention to me.” 

“He always told me you got on his nerves,” Rodimus blurted. 

“He told _me_ I got on his nerves and then he never actually did anything to get me to stop. Cause I’d have left him alone if he’d seriously sat me down and told me to stop it. But he never did. Because he counted on me to keep coming after him, because he didn’t know how to say he liked me back.” 

“Heh. Sounds like you deserve each other.” Rodimus grinned. “What changed?” 

“Hedonia.” Drift paused. “And then we both had Whirl’s Drink of Doom during Truth or Drink night at Swerve’s.” 

“Hedonia,” Rodimus repeated thoughtfully, and then an idea struck him. “But you and I were…” 

Drift drew a ragged breath. “I wasn’t fair to you,” he said honestly. “I thought you wouldn’t want to be my friend anymore if I didn’t…flirt with you and stuff.” 

“Scrap me, Drift. I never would’ve done that if I’d known you didn’t want me to.” 

Drift offered Rodimus a shy smile. “I know that now. And I’m sorry I didn’t trust you sooner.” He clapped Rodimus on the shoulder—a friendly gesture, not a sexual one. “Thank you. For being my friend.” 

“You’d have to admit we’d have been really hot together.” Rodimus winked, and Drift guessed that he was teasing. Or mostly teasing. 

“The universe couldn’t have handled it,” Drift teased back. “We’d have set space on fire.” 

“Yeah.” Rodimus leaned back, looking up at the sky. “Maybe everything turned out the way it should have after all.” 

“Fate’s funny that way.” Drift laid down on his spinal strut, folding his hands behind his head. It reminded him of his early life with Gasket: laying side by side on the roof of a ruined hotel, looking up at Cybertron’s constellations. “So who’s the lucky mech?” 

“You want to guess?”  
“Okay. Um…” A weird idea occurred to Drift. He sat bolt upright. “It’s not Megatron, is it?” 

“Ew! No!” Rodimus made a gagging face. “Don’t be gross.” Then Rodimus furrowed his brow. “Wait…I mean, did you…I’m not calling you gross if you…” 

Drift quickly changed the subject to save Rodimus the awkwardness, rather than point out the qualities that Rodimus shared with Starscream. Or rather than examine why he got a weird feeling in the pit of his fuel tank when he thought about Rodimus and Megatron twined together on a berth. He couldn’t possibly be _envious_ , could he? Envious of Rodimus? 

“How about Nightbeat?” Drift asked, so he wouldn’t have to think about that. 

“Pfft. As _if_. Can you even imagine what he’d be like in the berth?” 

“I dunno,” Drift joked, “just tell him you can’t overload and you don’t know why, and challenge him to solve the mystery.” 

Rodimus blinked. Then he threw back his head and laughed. “Oh my god, he’d….he’d never stop….until he was sure he’d gotten it!” 

Drift chuckled too. It _was_ pretty funny. He imagined Nightbeat holding a magnifying glass over Rodimus’s anterior node, and started to snicker. Soon the two of them were in the middle of a giggle fit, and one look at each other’s face started them laughing again. 

“I guess I’ll never know,” Rodimus said, wiping at his optics. 

“Okay. Um…” Drift furrowed his brow. Chromedome and Rewind were a monogamous couple. Ratchet was with Drift. Roller and Terminus were too new to the group for Rodimus to have gotten serious about either of them. Brainstorm was either still hung up on his lost love, or hung up on Perceptor, or both. 

_Primus, who’s left?_

Suddenly Drift thought of an absolutely ridiculous idea. 

“Ultra Magnus,” he said, just to see how Rodimus would respond. 

Rodimus’s jaw dropped. 

That was a disappointingly subdued reaction from Rodimus. Drift had hoped to get called a name, or at the very least told to frag off. 

He was drawing breath for his real guess when Rodimus whispered, “It was that obvious that soon?” 

“Velocity,” Drift said, unable to change the direction of his train of thought anywhere near quickly enough. 

“Huh?” 

Drift caught himself just in time. He couldn’t possibly tell Rodimus that he’d said Ultra Magnus as a joke. “My next guess was going to be Velocity, but I, uh, it looks like I got it in one.” 

_Primus. Ultra Magnus?_

_How in the Pit does that work?_

All Drift remembered was Rodimus and Magnus driving each other crazy—Magnus with his pedantic insistence on procedure, forms, and paperwork, and Rodimus with his seat-of-the-pants impulsive style. Rodimus had spent hours complaining to Drift about Magnus’s never-ending memos and comm messages with little red “urgent” flags on them. 

“You always told me he got on your nerves,” Drift blurted, before he realized that Ratchet had always said the same thing about _him_. 


	13. I Have No Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Move's over and I'm hoping to update my fics more regularly now that my life is settling down.

Chapter 13: I Have No Name 

Ratchet sat stunned into silence at the sound of his own voice in his own clinic. His _old_ clinic. The underground back-alley clinic in Rodion. 

“Come on, I don’t have all night,” Functionist Universe Ratchet groused. 

_This isn’t what a Head Medical Administrator does. He’s a paper-pusher now. But he’s on the front line in an illegal clinic just the same._

Ratchet cleared his throat. “I’m looking for Drift,” he blurted before he could think better of it. His voice came out high and strained. 

_At least I don’t sound like myself._

“Who?” Ratchet-on-the-other-end snapped. 

Drift’s conjunx felt his spark sink. “Drift,” he tried again. “Might go by Deadlock?” 

Wait—hadn’t Megatron named Drift Deadlock? His brain couldn’t keep up with the events. Why wasn’t this like surgery? In emergencies, it always felt to Ratchet as though time had slowed down. Of course, in reality it was just his brain processing events more quickly. But his crisis response hadn’t kicked in over this call, and now he was left scrambling to catch up. 

_When_ had this world changed? Brainstorm had said that Rewind had shot Megatron before he came online and, in so doing, created the parallel reality that took over Rewind’s archive. A world where Megatron had never existed. No Decepticons. No war. 

Functionism ascendant for four million years. 

Tyranny. Mass executions. A world chopped up into social exclusion zones so mechs couldn’t even _contact_ people from different classes. Ignorance dividing people even more effectively than walls. Mechs were kept to their own kind and never learned to understand one another. 

_The way I failed to understand Drift all those years ago._

“He used to be an addict in the Dead End,” Ratchet said, wondering what he’d do if other-Ratchet had never met Drift, wondering if such an outcome would be better, or worse. 

“Oh,” said Head Medical Administrator Ratchet. “ _That_ Drift. Heh. I haven’t had anyone talk about him for a long time.” 

Ratchet felt his breath catch in his throat. HMA Ratchet filled the silence. “And who are _you_?” 

“Uh.” Primus, but he hadn’t thought this through. 

“How’d you get this number?” the Head Medical Administrator demanded. “It’s _unlisted_.” 

Ratchet thought quickly. “I got it from Drift. A long time ago. I’m…worried and wondering where he is.” 

How could he explain four million years of ignorance? 

“I’ve been away a long time,” he stammered, “and just got here. I’m trying to…to reconnect with him.” 

“Listen. If you’ll smart you’ll forget you ever heard the name Drift.” 

“And why’s that?” 

“If I tell you, you’ll wish you didn’t know.” 

Ratchet could barely find his voice. “Why?” 

“He found out he had a gift for killing.” HMA Ratchet coughed. “He’s a Dreddbot now. An infamously cruel and heartless one.” 

Ratchet felt his fuel tank sink. _Drift_ —rebuilt into one of the armoured enforcers of the Functionist regime. 

“If you want to blame anyone,” HMA Ratchet continued, “blame me. I’m the one who marched him down to the Functionist Council and set him up with a job. Him and that buddy of his. Gasket. Constructed-cold mechs were still around, then….that’s why you’re calling, isn’t it? You heard the Functionist Council decommissioned all the cold-constructed knockoffs. If you’re constructed cold, then you need to get on the next shuttle leaving and never look back.” He cleared his throat. “As for Drift, he’s alive. Yes, there were a handful of exemptions and Drift is one of them. The Cog couldn’t make a better killer if they tried.” 

“You did what you thought was best for him,” Ratchet whispered. 

HMA Ratchet’s voice took on an odd tone. “Most people are surprised to find out their friends are bloodthirsty murderers. You’re not only taking it in stride, you’re more concerned about how I feel. Which makes me wonder again who you are and whether you’re interested in Drift or in _my_ loyalty to the regime.” 

Ratchet’s spinal strut prickled. “If you think I might be a government spy, you’ve said an awful lot.” 

“If you’re a government spy, then I’m old and I’m tired and you can just do what you have to do.” 

Ratchet’s throat closed. He remembered frustration, and depression, and worry, but this Ratchet sounded as though he was on the verge of crossing the line into despair. 

“I’m no Functionist,” Ratchet snapped. “I’m the person Drift trusts to talk him down.” 

“I see. So where were you when Drift and Gasket got that security job—the nasty, dangerous kind of job they gave cold-constructed mechs back then? The dirty jobs that Forged mechs wouldn’t do? Where were you when the thieves killed Gasket and Drift painted the walls with their blood? Where were you when the Functionist Council realized that kind of efficient brutality was a gift that they could weaponize?” HMA Ratchet’s tone quivered with anger. “Where were you when they gave him a badge and a gun and a little recognition and he dedicated his life to the glory of the Cog?” 

“I know where you were,” Ratchet said quietly. “You were trying to cope with the unshakeable belief that it was all your fault.” 

No, this world and his own weren’t that different, in the end. 

“Isn’t it?” HMA Ratchet said bleakly. “If I hadn’t been so insistent, he would never have gone to the employment office, never have gotten that job, never have made those kills, never lost himself to…to the exact opposite of everything I do and everything I believe in.” 

“He’d be dead,” Ratchet replied quietly. “You said so yourself. Only a handful of exceptions for the constructed-cold.” 

“But who knows how many other people might be alive?” HMA Ratchet retorted, and Ratchet’s own conscience struck a guilty chord. How many Autobots had Deadlock killed? How many lives in trade for Drift’s? 

But infinite universes meant infinite possibilities, and Ratchet was a practical mech who knew how to focus on the here and now. “You can play what-if all day and never get anywhere, Head Medical Administrator. We’ve all got regrets. We all wish we could do some things differently. But in the end neither you nor I are responsible for Drift’s choices. We can try to help him, but his decisions are his own. Just as our decisions are our own.” 

Ratchet wasn’t sure if he was speaking to the Head Medical Administrator, or to himself. Soon he would be playing his own game of what-if. Had he told Head Medical Administrator Ratchet too much—or not enough? 

He wanted to ask about Pharma, but he decided it was none of his business. If this Pharma was playing the manipulation games that _his_ Pharma had played, HMA Ratchet wouldn’t want to hear it. _He_ hadn’t wanted to hear it until he was prepared to come to terms with the truth. And if this Pharma _wasn’t_ playing them—if this Pharma was still the loving, charming, devoted, brilliant partner that he’d been once, so long ago—then who was Ratchet to split them up? Just because things in his universe had worked out differently? 

But in the bottom of his spark he was glad that he was with Drift now and not Pharma. 

He wanted to tell HMA Ratchet that there was still a good person inside the Dreddbot that had once been Drift. But was that really true? 

Ratchet supposed there was one way to find out. 

“You’re still running an underground clinic in Rodion,” he murmured. “All this time and no one’s caught you. Shut you down. Sanctioned you…or worse. I wonder if a certain Dreddbot is the reason.” 

“I…” HMA Ratchet’s voice broke. 

“It might be worth looking into,” Ratchet said, “if you want to know whether there’s any good left in him. But if you do, be careful. Any links you find might endanger you both.” 

HMA Ratchet let out a ragged breath. “I…I don’t know if I can go on like this. Pretending to support a regime that does these kinds of things to people.” 

“They could use a good doctor in Adaptica.” 

“But…my patients here.” A pause. “Pharma.” 

“I can’t tell you what to do, Head… _Ratchet_. All I can say is thank you. For looking after my…” He paused. “After Drift.” 

“It’s my job.” 

Ratchet couldn’t remember how often he’d uttered those words. So many congratulations over the years for actions that Ratchet himself considered the least he could do. He didn’t do those things to earn others’ acclaim. He did them so he could face himself in the mirror, day after day after day. 

“Then you’ll know what else is your job,” he said quietly, “when the time comes.” 

“I…” 

Ratchet ended the call before he said too much. 

He leaned back against the wall and rubbed his knuckles into his optics. He felt tired, and unsettled, wondering if he’d done the right thing. But in the end the best he could do would be to take his own advice. 

Yes, he knew what his own job was. It was a job he’d been putting off far too long. 

It was time to find Drift and talk to him about Megatron. 


End file.
